Seeing and Observing
by DarkPhoenix713
Summary: Harry returns to Privet Drive after his second year, but his magic is acting up and getting him into trouble. He flees to muggle London where he is taken care of by a dog, a doctor, and a quirky detective. SB/JW possible other pairings. Light slash.
1. Chapter 1

Harry stood in the hazy, lamp-lit street, shivering. His white-knuckled fingers clenched around Hedwig's empty cage, while he seriously contemplated digging his cloak out of his trunk. He weighed the two evils in his mind: looking like a freak in Muggle London at one in the morning, or freezing to death in the unseasonably chill night air. Sighing, he dragged his trunk a little further onto an empty street, before giving in to exhaustion. He dug out his cloak, and sat on his trunk, wand clenched in his fist. His head drooped morosely; he was cold, hungry, alone, on the run from the Ministry, and thirteen years old. As he slipped into a wary daze, he wondered, '_how did it come to this?_'

**One Week Earlier**

Harry left platform 9 3/4 with a growing sense of dread. The train ride had not been easy – trying to keep up with the celebratory mood in the compartment the Weasley brothers had commandeered for their sister was difficult. While he was glad Ginny was alive, his near-death in the chamber and his probable death awaiting him at his 'home' loomed over him. Luckily, the Weasley twins and Ron were boisterous enough, exclaiming over Percy's un-petrified girlfriend while Hermione and Ginny giggled.

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><p>Harry left King's Cross station and immediately spotted his vast, multi-hued uncle. Without a word, he followed him to the car, and loaded his trunk in the boot without any assistance, not that he expected any. He quietly slipped into the backseat, with a murmered "thank you, sir" to his glowering uncle. He saw Hermione pass in front of their parking spot, but he made no motion. Hew was no longer at Hogwarts, he was officiallt 'at the Dursley's', and and the Dursley's, Harry Potter had no friends.<p>

As they approached Little Whinging after a tensely silent ride, Vernon Dursley spoke. "Marge is coming tomorrow. You shall not reveal your ... freakishness to her. If I even get a hint of something funny, it's on your head. You've already got that ruddy window to pay for."

Harry winced. He had hoped Vernon had forgotten his summer escape to the Weasley's. Evidentely, he hadn't.

"Yes, sir," he murmured, cringing. His magic had been slightly volatile since the chamber – he wasn't sure why, but he was willing to pin it on the cocktail of basilisk venom and phoenix tears he had floating around in his blood. He hadn't mentioned it to anyone at Hogwarts, as he was slightly resentful to the teachers for their attitudes. His near-death experience had gotten him thinking about how his life had been at school. The teachers had let an unknown monster petrify the students! And they could have died, _Ginny_ almost died, no thanks to them. No, it had taken second years to figure it out – Hermione to do the research to discover what the monster was, and Harry to go down and kill it. Admittedly, they had access to a few more clues than the staff did, mainly the voice in the walls and Tom Riddle's diary, but still, the staff were fully trained magical professionals. In Harry's eyes, they hadn't done their jobs.

The magical world seemed very _off_ to Harry. Not that he didn't love it – it was a welcome escape from his horrible relatives. However, he highly doubted he should even be with said relatives. Didn't the magical world have orphanages? It should have an equivalent to child services at the very least – that way children like Harry and Tom Riddle wouldn't be raised in such negative environments. Harry frowned, thinking back to his muggle school days. They had been horrible, but the guardians were much more involved in the lives of their children. His aunt had gotten called for him being found on the roof, so surely the school had notified the parents of the petrified children? He then remembered that they were muggleborn, but that shouldn't make a difference, in his opinion. The parents had a right to know if their child was missing classes due to _almost being killed by a giant snake_.

Then there was the matter of Ginny. Harry wasn't sure how it worked in the other houses, but McGonagall wasn't the best head of house. He didn't remember her ever meeting with the Gryffindors, other than the time a few weeks ago when she had stepped into the common room to announce Ginny's disappearance. No, she usually delegated to her prefects to care for the students. Harry figured that they had arsed that job up pretty well, especially Percy. As Head Boy and older brother of Ginny, shouldn't he have been able to _tell_ if she had started acting differently?

That wasn't even taking his first year into account. How in the world had Quirrell managed to be hired with bloody _Voldemort _sticking out the back of his head? And hiding a highly coveted and dangerous magical object in a school full of children just wasn't on in Harry's opinion. Sure, he had gone after it, but that was only because no one would take him seriously and listen when he said it was in danger. No, it was all "it's perfectly safe, Potter, now go play outside." The 'perfectly safe' part came into question when three first-years were able to beat all of the enchantments guarding the stone. Looking back, it seemed terribly contrived to Harry. He was a naturally suspicious child – you don't grow up with the Dursley's without developing a finely tuned skepticism on human nature. He knew everyone saw him as some sort of celebrity, and he thought is was the most idiotic thing ever. It was all very frustrating, and Harry let out an inaudible sigh as they pulled into the driveway at Number 4 Privet Drive.

As soon as Harry walked in the door, Aunt Petunia appeared, glaring at him. She pointed imperiously at the cupboard under the stairs, and Harry suffered a moment of heart-stopping panic before she snapped, "all that junk goes in there. Now. Duddy grew again so there are some clothes for you upstairs. And send that creature away – it will upset the dog." She said this all with a scowl twisting her thin face, and Harry grimaced in return, dragging his trunk down the hallway. No wand, no books – nothing this summer except what he could scrounge up. Sighing, he turned to his Aunt as she closed and locked the door, and said, "I'll send her away, but I'll need to write a note so they know to keep her there."

Aunt Petunia pursed her lips as she tried to find something amiss with his reasoning, but eventually she turned and walked briskly into the kitchen. She opened a drawer and took out a single post-it note and a cheap ballpoint pen, and gave them both to Harry. He quickly wrote on the limited space:

_Ron, please take care of Hedwig for -_

Harry hesitated and glanced up at Aunt Petunia through his fringe.

"How long ...?"

"Two weeks," she snapped, and he nodded hurriedly, trying to hide a wince as he quickly scrawled the rest of the note.

_two weeks. No letters during that time, tell Hermione sorry. Uncle's sister is visiting. - Harry_

Aunt Petunia glanced at the note, sniffed and handed him a list of chores.

"You can send it tonight when it wont be seen. Marge is arriving tomorrow, so these must be done by then." She pointed at the rather lengthy list.

Harry nodded and climbed the stairs with Hedwig's cage in one hand and the list in the other. Harry reflected that if any of his schoolmates could see him now, they would be completely shocked. But Harry had learned over the course of his life that confrontation was a very bad idea when it came to any of the Dursleys. So it was that Harry meekly accepted what came to him, and rolled up his figurative sleeves, preparing himself for his work. He knew he would not eat until it was done.


	2. Chapter 2

Hey, thanks for reading! I welcome any and all reviews, and I appreciate you taking the time to read this. I'm going to see where this story goes, but if you have any suggestions, I'm more than willing to read some brainstorming. I love longer stories, I want to keep this going!

Warnings: This is a story with light slash, and a bit of Dumbles hating. Also some abuse, so if you're uncomfortable with it then... sucks to your asthmar :P

This is obviously AU, and the timeline is a bit off with the events in POA, but I think getting the action started right away is less boring. So, with my deepest apologies to timeline freaks, Imma do this my way.

Disclaimers: I own neither the characters in Rowling's Harry Potter, nor the characters in BBC's Sherlock.

This has a bunch of emotional crap in it – sorry but it's got to be done to get Harry's mindset out there. There will be a bit more action in the next chapter, I promise!

CH 2

Aunt Marge's Visit was just as horrible as Harry had anticipated. She had steamrollered her way into the house, and flung her bags at him and herself at Dudley. Privately, Harry thought he had gotten the better of the two, even if Dudley came away with twenty pounds while he most likely had a bruised rib. Marge had brought Ripper, her prize bulldog with her, and he glared balefully at Harry as he dragged the luggage up the stairs.

He lagged in descending to join the misshapen blobs he called his relatives, but finally he was called in to serve the food. Aunt Marge had always delighted in tearing him down, especially by comparing him to Dudley. Why she thought this may demoralize him, Harry never knew. He personally thought it was an absolute Godsend that he was so very dissimilar to his whale of a cousin. Still, the years of aggravation got a bit depressing after a while, what with the whacks from her cane, the occaisional slap for impertinence, the digs at his parents, and her sicking her stupid dogs on him. Oddly enough, Ripper had approached Harry, his growls making his blubbery flesh vibrate before he snuffled through his scrunched up nose. If a dog's eyes could pop, Rippers most certainly tried to do so – he actually whimpered, and stayed away from Harry from then on.

Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth - especially because horses reminded him of Aunt Petunia and he tried to stay as far as possible from her – Harry just picked at the tiny portion of the meal he had been dished out. He wanted to leave the table as soon as possible, but he knew that getting up to early would only draw Marge's attention to him. So he sat and stoically ate his meagre fare, while the three born Dursley's shovelled piles of food into their quivering maws, and Aunt Petunia emulated some sort of fidgety bird, pecking and shredding at her food.

After bellowing for most of the meal about dogs, escaped convicts, and the impressive and remarkable attributes of her beloved 'neffy-poo', Marge rounded on Harry. Squinting at him with maliciously beady eyes, she asked, "So, Vernon, where did you say the boy was going? He's still got that mean, runty look about him."

"St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal boys," Vernon grunted. "Specifically for hopeless cases like this one," he pointed a meaty finger at Harry, not looking at him directly.

"Hmph!" snorted Aunt Marge, ruffling her moustache with the strength of her exhalation. "About time, Vernon! You've put up with the whelp for far too long – he's lucky you didn't just stick him in an orphanage. That's what I would have done." She swelled impressively, giving Harry a scathing glare.

Harry sat and stewed in silent indignation. He was _right there_. Sure, the Dursley's generally ignored him, but they didn't do it in such a taunting manner! He reflected on the complete lack of sense that last thought made, and decided he'd have much rather gone to an orphanage. At least there you were given regular meals, and fairly equal treatment ... and a chance at a real family. One that wouldn't see a child as a burden.

Not allowing these thoughts to show on his face, Harry just grimaced a smile and began clearing the dishes at Aunt Petunia's nod. He was scraping the carnage that was their meal into the trash – God forbid Petunia ever serve something as plebeian as _leftovers_ – when Aunt Marge began to turn her complaints to drunks. Brandishing her tumbler of brandy, she shouted, "a disgrace to our society! No good, homeless wastrels, using alcohol to cover their ina – adequa – inade – problems!"

Harry rolled his eyes, and focused on washing the dishes. If he got them done soon, he could leave before Marge noticed him again. She usually could rant about drunks and the like for a solid ten minutes. What was that word Hermione used? It sounded like rhino. No, hippo! A hypocrite! Yes, that's what Aunt Marge was. Harry was sure the 60% of fluid that made up her body was entirely alcohol. As he dried off the last of the dishes, he heard Aunt Marge really getting into it, and decided to listen to gauge when would be the most opportune time to disappear.

"That boy's parents are another thing!" Aunt Marge was shouting. Harry looked swiftly at his relatives, who glanced with shifty eyes towards him. "Those excuses for humans are the reason you're stuck with the boy in the first place, Petunia." Aunt Marge continued, "I don't mean to judge, but your sister, well, she gets pregnant after school and what do you think will happen? Your family is lucky the man married her, at least salvaged your poor name! Too bad they were drunks and ingrate though – landed the boy right on your doorstep after they killed themselves." Nodding impressively, Marge took a deep gulp of her recently re-filled brandy.

Harry was white with rage. It was nothing he hadn't heard before, but now, knowing that his parents had been magical, had fought Voldemort, had been _good_, he couldn't stand it. He could see his uncle nodding piously, and his aunt looking nervous but remaining silent. This was her sister Marge was talking about! Didn't she care at all? Remembering what Aunt Petunia had said in the shack that night on his birthday, Harry realized she truly didn't. Aunt Petunia, his only family, hated his mother and hated him. All because they had _magic_.

Fury filled Harry, and the dish he had in his hand developed a sudden, hairline crack. Looking down in a panic, he realized that his magic was reacting to his anger, and seeping out of him. With a fearful glance to his uncle, who thankfully hadn't noticed, he took a calming breath. He had already received a warning from the Ministry last year, thanks to Dobby, and had no desire to be on the wrong side of the law. Quickly putting the dish away, he slunk out of the kitchen on silent feet, collapsing on the bed when he got to his room.

Harry took off his glasses and pressed his hands against his eyes. He had not cried since he was very young; he could not cry now. He had no right to cry – he wasn't even hurt! Words should not have this effect on him. Hadn't he survived the hateful whispers all through this year? As if a second year could be the Heir of Slytherin! Ginny didn't really count as a first year because she was being possessed by a 16-year-old Tom Riddle. Harry had also endured the cold shoulders and disappointed glares towards the end of his first year when he had lost all those points for Gryffindor. Even his Quidditch team had turned on him then, not even deigning to give address him by name. But he was used to being ignored, so he could take it. He had even endured Snape's endless taunts – Malfoy's didn't count because they were stupid. He had not gotten this worked up when he was told his father was arrogant, or that he, Harry, was stupid and reckless. Snape's opinion didn't matter to him, and neither did Aunt Marge's!

Then why this ache in his chest? He _knew_ now that his parents were not irresponsible drunks. But his whole life he had been told that they were young, they didn't want him, and that it was their own stupidity that got them killed. Harry knew that wasn't true. Lily and James Potter had fought Voldemort! They were his heroes! They had saved his life. And therein lay the root of the problem. While Harry knew that his parents loved him, the knowledge that they had died protecting him gave him no feelings of warmth. His self-esteem, already decimated by years with the Dursleys, had almost been crushed on gaining that knowledge. He was nothing special; why did two people so in love, such a perfect couple according to everyone, give everything up for _him_? It didn't make sense; he was nobody, nothing, a freak.

Harry shook his head. That wasn't true – he was a wizard! He could do magic, and he had friends. He was Harry Potter, he was – he was somebody. He was the Boy-Who-Lived. He 'defeated' Lord Voldemort, the Darkest Wizard since Grindlewald. He was a celebrity, he was rich, he was famous. And he hated it.

Harry wasn't sure which title he hated more – Freak, or the Boy-Who-Lived. Each was a label that had huge expectations attached to it. It gave him no room to be Harry. And he knew, that if his parents were still alive, if they loved him like everyone said they had, he could have been Harry. He could have had nicknames and scoldings and stories and hugs. Instead he got to go between rabid adulation and disgusted indifference.

Sighing, Harry rolled over. He hadn't gotten this upset in a long time. Perhaps it was because Hedwig was gone, perhaps it was because he hadn't seen Marge since before Hogwarts. In any case, he would have to do his best to ignore Aunt Marge. He may not be able to control his emotions – and that would lead to losing control of his magic.

Thanks for reading! If you have the time, please review, I'd love the input. Moving along the plot next chapter, I'll get it up ASAP :)


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys! Thanks for reading, again. It's so cool to know that there are people reading and following this story. Special thanks to GenuinelyEnigmatic, RRW, and Bsum1 for their reviews – your thoughts are appreciated :) I am going to try and stick with the story of POA, but obviously bringing Sherlock into the story will change things up, and hopefully fix some things for the better. It's a longer chapter, I just couldn't stop the scene though!

Disclaimers: I don't own anything to do with Harry Potter, and I own nothing to do with Sherlock and it's root material either. Except for the books which I bought concerning them. Those I do own. I may have borrowed some lines in this chapter from J.K. so those belong to her as well.

Warnings: This is a story with light slash, and a bit of Dumbles hating. Bsum1 pointed out that it shouldn't be just Dumbledore being bashed, and I agree so most of the adults will be called out on various things. Also some abuse, so if you're uncomfortable with it then... sucks to your asthmar :P

This is obviously AU, and the timeline is a bit off with the events in POA, but I think getting the action started right away is less boring.

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><p>Ch 3<p>

Looking back on that week, Harry didn't really know how he didn't lose his temper earlier. He had tried to adopt a policy of avoidance, but Marge delighted in comparing him to Dudley and flaunting her gifts in his face. This form of taunting had stopped stinging some years ago; he no longer was filled with with the morose jealousy that had fueled his neglected childhood. Forced to be in the company of the Dursleys, Harry tried to turn their techniques around on them, and just ignore them. This gave his face a very dull, slack look, and would have had Aunt Marge questioning his mental faculties if she had possessed the vocabulary to do so. In any case, she thought that he was extremely stupid, and praised Dudley's intelligence and general superiority any chance she could. She was, Harry reflected, even more deluded than Vernon and Petunia were about their son. How this was even possible Harry couldn't tell, but he supposed that, as a practitioner of magic, he shouldn't really be questioning impossibilities.

Harry got through the week by cooking very large and intricate meals for his relatives with very little assistance from Aunt Petunia. She was more of a supervisor, and even then she wasn't very attentive; she was generally absorbed in one of her gossip magazines, the ones she kept under her home and garden subscriptions. She was avidly following the story of some poor celebrity featured on the cover, but would occasionally glare over at Harry and try to find something wrong with his preparation. Harry was actually very good at cooking; he felt that he would be rather good at Potions if it weren't for Snape and Malfoy. And if he knew what reacted with what, to create different results. He was used to using his imagination when cooking, as he wasn't really permitted to taste his creations. However, potions just ended up looking like goop and bits of plant to him; Snape just wrote the instructions on the board and said 'go'. At least Aunt Petunia's recipe books had pictures and such.

Harry glanced over as Aunt Petunia let out a snort of derision. He knew it wasn't him; he had made every part of the roast chicken with potato salad correctly so far. No Aunt Petunia was looking scathingly at her gossip rag, muttering about criminals and unsavoury persons. Feeling bad for whoever was under his aunt's beady eye, Harry just continued with his preparations, knowing better than to ask. 'Don't ask questions' was still the one of the pillars by which he lived his life at the Dursleys. However, he was allowed to – or, he hadn't been told not to – observe, so when Aunt Petunia flipped the page with a more agitated motion than usual, he caught a glimpse of a thoroughly unkept and deranged looking man. Not wanting to look too interested, Harry turned back to the counter, and his careful preparations. This was the half-way mark, he only had one more week of Aunt Marge, then it was back to his studied non-existence. He couldn't wait.

That evening Uncle Vernon barrelled through the door brandishing a newspaper. He bellowed into the living room, where both Aunt Marge and Dudley were watching television, "Have you seen the news? Government's let a madman loose on us!"

Aunt Petunia rushed in from the dining room, simpering "Oh yes, darling, it was all over – there's a hotline to call if anyone sees him!" Aunt Petunia practically gushed that last bit, looking around as if she would spot the man and be able to call the hotline.

"News?" barked Aunt Marge, "What would a boy like Dudders want to watch the news for?"

Dudley ignored the adults, his eyes fixed on the screen. Harry was setting the table, but he heard Uncle Vernon expand on his knowledge of the 'madman'.

"Says here 'mass murderer Sirius Black has escaped from a secure facility.' Says he's armed, and will probably go around killing all us decent folk. 'Course he will, look at the state of him!" Vernon came in with the newspaper, followed by his wife and waddling sister, "look at his hair!"

Harry, finished with laying out dinner, glanced at the front page. A horribly gaunt man with long, scraggly black hair glared out from the black and white photograph. This was a muggle picture, so the subject didn't move, but Harry felt that the convict's eyes were glittering very sinisterly. Dudley somehow made it through the doorway, and the family, and Harry, sat down to eat.

"Did they mention where the man escaped from, Vernon?" Marge asked as she tore into Harry's beautiful, perfectly golden chicken.

Uncle Vernon grunted, "No. Not a mention – could be anywhere. He could be walking down the street as we speak!"

Aunt Petunia gasped, and started craning her neck towards the window. Aunt Marge grumbled about the government and the police force and the whole penal system. Harry rolled his eyes and tried to eat as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself; he just wanted to clear the dishes and go upstairs.

Uncle Vernon was nodding along with his sister's points. "Exactly!" he roared. "When will they learn that hanging's the only way to deal with these people?"

"Humph!" Aunt Marge made a vaguely affirmative noise. Harry supposed it meant yes, however he wasn't well versed in the special language of grunts and rumbles that he suspected formed the majority of a Dursley's vocabulary. "Vernon, that's what this country doesn't get! The death penalty is the only real solution – none of this _reform_ and correction business," she sneered at Harry. "If it's a bad egg, its a bad egg and it needs to go before it stinks up the rest."

Harry was caught between being impressed at Marge's almost certain grasp of an extended metaphor, and rolling his eyes at yet another hint that he should just drop dead. He wondered when he had become so blase on hearing other people wished him dead. He supposed that finding out a Dark Lord wanted to kill you really made the death threats made by fat relatives pale in comparison.

"It's like I said, Petunia," Marge continued. "Blood will out. You get tramps like that Potter snatching up young, impressionable girls like your sister and see what you get? Alcoholics, the both of them, not even caring enough to keep themselves alive for their child. Selfish, ill-bred wastrels. Mighty irresponsible, bringing the boy into the world if they didn't even want to stick around to raise it properly! They have the nerve to leave it to you, their decent, hard-working relatives! And now you're stuck with this product of bad breeding – it's in the blood Petunia, why, if it were a dog, I would have drowned the pup as soon as I learned the bitch was -"

Harry couldn't see; his ears were ringing and a white haze had settled over his vision. Distantly, he heard a gruff voice shout 'boy!' and he shook his head, turning towards the purple face of his 'aunt'. She was now ranting that it was obviously Harry's parents' fault that he was so defective; she had heard about how alcohol and drugs affected children in the womb. As she swelled to elaborate her point, Harry hissed at her in his absolute fury. Her eyes widened slightly, and she continued to swell. And she didn't stop – her eyes bugged out and her chest expanded, popping the tawdry buttons on her food-smeared blouse. Her arms slowly raised away from her sides, too large to fall naturally, and her hands expanded as if someone were blowing into a rubber glove. Aunt Marge was attempting to look wildly around while this happened, however her neck and shoulders had blown up to the extent that she could not move at all. She settled for rolling her eyes madly in her her now puce-coloured face. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia gaped while this was happening, before Aunt Petunia shrieked and started dragging Dudley from the room, while Vernon rounded on Harry.

"PUT HER RIGHT! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER? FIX HER NOW, FREAK!" Vernon screamed at him. Harry was breathing heavily, and feeling a little lightheaded. He looked dizzily into his uncle's furious face, and reeled backwards as a meaty fist collided into the side of his head. Harry fell towards the wall, utterly confused. Had he performed accidental magic? Where had that weird hiss come from? He had felt a sudden outflow of energy when he had lashed out at his Aunt – Harry's musings were interrupted by a punch to his gut. Uncle Vernon drew back his fist again and roared at him, "FREAK IF YOU DON'T FIX HER THIS INSTANT YOU'RE IN FOR THE BEATING OF YOUR LIFE!"

Alarmed, Harry's eyes darted towards his uncle's face. It was splotchy and apoplectic with rage. He realized that he _had _to get away, get somewhere safe, and he made a sudden dash for the door, stumbling in his inexplicable exhaustion. Marge was now rolling around on the ceiling, with Ripper alternately barking at Vernon and cowering away from Harry.

As Harry tried to stumble away, he tripped, and sprawled over the floor. A few pounding footsteps later, and he felt a burning blow to his side. Uncle Vernon had kicked him. An absurd, disbelieving part of Harry weakly giggled that his uncle had kicked him while he was down – trust Vernon to stick with truisms and cliches. That part of his mind was quickly chased away by another kick to his stomach. Harry curled his legs in front of him and brought his arms up to cover his head, and Vernon continued his vicious assault, his foot making crushing contact with his back, his legs, his arms.

There was a gasp from the doorway, and Harry dimly heard Aunt Petunia shriek "Vernon!"

Uncle Vernon paused, and Harry glanced up between a gap in his arms. His aunt was standing in the doorframe, looking uncertainly between her husband and her nephew.

Uncle Vernon was purple-faced and panting from his exertions. "What is it Petunia? The freak has gone far enough! First with the letters and then with the owls – now he's gone after Marge!"

Aunt Petunia's eyes snapped up from where she'd been staring at Harry with a sick expression. "Yes, the boy has gone far enough, but do something about your sister first! She's floating around the living room now, what if the neighbours see?" she hissed.

Uncle Vernon paled and rushed across the room, before turning to Harry. "I'm not finished with you, freak. I'll see to Marge, and then you have a lot to answer for."

Harry groaned and tried to move. His body ached all over, but non of his limbs seemed to be broken. Aunt Petunia hesitated in following her husband. She turned to her nephew, and saw her sister's green eyes ringed with purpled skin.

"Get out of here. Go, somewhere – I don't care where. He'll not let you live here any longer." She sniffed, and went out to the hallway, where he heard her unlock the cupboard door. She then made her way into the living room, where Vernon was exclaiming over a presumably still-floating Aunt Marge.

Harry cursed in quiet hisses, and got up, the urgency, the _need_ to escape superseding the considerably pain he was experiencing. He had read between the lines of what Aunt Petunia had said, and he agreed. His uncle wouldn't let him _live _at Privett Drive any longer. He was certainly going to kill Harry, so Harry quite understandably didn't want to stick around for that.

He dragged his trunk out of the cupboard and left it by the door, then silently made his way upstairs. He wasn't sure why the ministry hadn't arrived to expel him for his blatant use of magic on a muggle, but he wasn't taking any chances; he needed to get out, _fast_. He made it to his room, and grabbed his things from the loose floorboard and stuffed some things lying around in his pillowcase. With that slung over his shoulder, he passed by Marge's room and he glanced at it. Dudley sounded like he was watching the tellie in his room, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were _still _shouting about Marge. Deciding quickly, Harry stole into Marge's room, and quickly located her purse. He found around five-hundred pounds in bills – he remembered that she mentioned hating banks, and never went to them if she could help it. Stuffing the money in his pocket, he limped downstairs, and flung the pillowcase into his trunk.

Harry took a deep, steadying breath, and making sure that his Aunt and Uncle weren't coming, also raided his uncle's wallet. It had two-hundred pounds in bills, but Harry made sure to grab some coins as well. He quietly opened the door, and crept out onto the street, dragging his trunk behind him and grasping Hedwig's empty cage in one hand.

As he made his way down the street, he knew that he had to avoid the wizarding world. The worst case scenario was that he would be caught and expelled for his underage magic. Harry couldn't bear the thought of not being able to go back to Hogwarts. He wasn't happy with how things were run, but it was way better than living with the Dursleys! That was another option, almost as bad as being expelled. If by some chance he _wasn't _expelled and they caught him, Dumbledore would almost certainly make him go back to his relatives'. For his own protection, of course, never minding that Uncle Vernon would most likely murder him the minute he walked inside.

Sighing, Harry made his way towards the nearest station. He'd go to London, but he'd stick to the muggle part of it. He may get a few funny looks because of the trunk and cage, but he could probably find somewhere to stay in the city. Seven-hundred pounds could last for a while, and if he needed to he could sneak into Gringott's.

With that tentative plan in mind, Harry promised to himself that he would keep a low magical profile, and hide in muggle London. A cold fear gripped his chest, but surely whatever he was heading towards couldn't be worse than the torture at Number 4.

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><p>Thanks for reading! How was that? I'm sorry about the wait, I wasn't sure how I wanted to set up Harry's escape. Turned into a much longer chapter, but I'm pleased with it. Next will be his journey to London.<p>

I thought that with Marge and Vernon being the type of people they are, they would have large amounts of cash on them at all times. This is in part because they wouldn't trust other people, like _banks_ with their money, and partly because they want to impress people at a moment's notice. I think that Harry would know this, and because he wasn't able to rush out as quickly as he did in the book, because of his uncle, he would have slowed down enough to realize that having some muggle money would be a good thing.

In case you were wondering, yes, there is a tie to Harry hissing and his magic acting up, and why he felt so exhausted after blowing up Marge.

So, any thoughts or concerns? Comments really help me solidify the story, thank you to all who have reviewed already :)


	4. Chapter 4

Hey! Thanks for the reviews! Sorry about the wait, University is being all ... school-like and wanting assignments and stuff done for some strange reason. Forgive my prioritization :P

Yes, I know it's a bit unrealistic for a 12-year-old to be catching cabs and wandering around large cities, but c'mon – he's Harry Freaking Potter. He could be walking down the Great Wall of China and it would be all OK. Except for the part I have to warn you about. Ahem:

Disclaimer: I honestly don't own anything from either story in this crossover.

Warnings: SKEEZY WANNABE RAPIST. Nothing horrible, or graphic, just enough to have a kind of moral to not go down dark alleys and turn your back and be stupid when in a big city.

The story will have light slash, and bashing of authority figures in Harry's life.

This is AU with a bit of an off timeline – if you have issues with it, well... I'm sorry you feel that way.

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><p>Ch 4<p>

Dragging his trunk towards the station, Harry was already exhausted. The long summer day had ended while dinner was being eaten at Number 4, and Harry made his way down the dimly lit street panting heavily. His mind was racing through the misty haze of tiredness; what would he do now? Where would he go? How would he get there? The questions whirled around his mind, and he pushed the less immediate concerns away (_bollockscrapshiittt am I expelled? Where's the Ministry? Ohgodohgodohgod_) and focused on what he was doing at that moment.

He wanted to get to London. Magical travel was out – while flying his broomstick into the city would have been fun at any other time, he was far too worn out to manage at the moment. So, it was muggle transport he would take. He weighed the pros and cons of different modes in his mind as he stumbled along.

He could take a train – the station wasn't all that far, and there was probably a direct line to London. However, Harry was carrying a rather bulky trunk and a large empty cage (which he was seriously considering ditching), which would draw attention on an evening train to the city. Harry would rather not draw attention to himself; he probably looked very roughed up, and the last thing he needed was a concerned muggle calling the police.

Buses were out for much the same reasons that trains were, so Harry was left with one viable option. He'd have to call a cab. Being in an enclosed space with a stranger was not high on Harry's to-do list, and it was always possible the cabbie could get suspicious and report him. Harry thought if he made up a good enough lie he could get away with it. It would also make up for his lack of knowledge concerning the train system – he'd really only taken the train when Hagrid had come for him on his 11th birthday. But cabs were simple; you just hail one, tell the driver where you want to go, and pay your fare at the end.

Satisfied with his decision, Harry thought about where he could find or call a cab. There was a small shopping center a few blocks over. It wasn't large enought to bring down the property values of the monotonous suburb, but it had a small grocery, a few restaurants, and a pub. Aunt Petunia had always sniffed at the establishment when they passed by, Harry carrying the grocery bags and Dudley slurping on an ice cream treat, but it was rather charming. Harry knew that cabs would hover around the area, ready to take home the hard-working men when the barman decided they had had one too many.

He finally made it to the well-lit street and slipped over to the few cabs that were beginning to hover in the area. Making sure that his arms and face were as covered as possible, Harry walked with as confident a gait as he could manage given the circumstances. Injuries, exhaustion, and an insecure childhood were more than likely a factor in the halting steps he made as he approached the cab. Taking a deep breath, Harry knocked on the passenger window and opened the door.

"Excuse me, sir, but how much to get to London?"

The cabbie looked shocked for a moment, and stared at the young child warily before saying, "hundred quid, kid, why ya askin'?"

Harry gave a frustrated sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. He looks at the cabbie with a small smile and says, "I was supposed to stay the week with my older cousin, and we've been having an OK time, but this evening this crazy bint shows up crying about how sorry she is and stuff. He gave me some money and told me I was to catch a cab back to mum and dad's – doesn't want me on a train this late, I guess." Harry span his tale with just the right amount of exasperation and humour to defuse the potentially volatile situation of a child needing transport at such a time.

The cabbie chuckled and muttered something about relating to having crazy ex-girlfriends before he got out of the cab and helped Harry with his trunk. Harry got into the cab and they started the hour-long journey to the nation's capital.

After about forty minutes they were entering the outskirts of the city, and Harry was just coming out of a light, much needed doze. They cabbie, whose name Harry had discovered to be Bill, turned his head and asked Harry, "So whereabouts are your folks, then?"

Harry looked blankly at him, mind racing with a possible destination. Where in the world, well, in London, should he go? Mentally cursing himself, he blurted out the first place he could think of.

"Regent's Park!" Harry said. When Bill raised an eyebrow towards him, Harry quickly elaborated, "I was staying with my cousin because mum and dad were having a weekend out by Regent's Park. If you can get me there, I'll be able to find where they're at – I just don't remember the address." Harry shrugged sheepishly, and Bill looked satisfied.

"No worries, lad, we'll get you there eventually," with a quick grin in the rear-view mirror, Bill once again focused on the road, while Harry alternated between staring out the window and watching his fare slowly edge its way higher and higher.

The crush of buildings suddenly diminished and Harry found himself looking into a green expanse in the middle of the city.

"Regents Park," Bill stated. "Now, whereabouts did we need to go?"

Harry was in a state of mild panic. Why hadn't he just taken the subway? Sure, there would have been more people to see him, but they wouldn't have such a vested interest in where he was going. _Muggle, muggle... what's believable?_ Harry thought frantically.

With a reluctant glance towards the man, Harry said, "Sorry, I don't recognize any of the hotels – could you drop me off at the University?" There was a University around here, right? "My dad works with them sometimes, I can give him a ring from the night office and they'll pick me up."

Harry said all of this as assertively as he could, but he was getting rather tired of spinning tales. He hadn't had to hold a deception for this long since grade school, when he had to play along with what Aunt Petunia told the teachers. And even then, it wasn't him concocting the story, but his Aunt.

Still, the cabbie was accepting enough, and seemed to want to get this fare over with so he could work his way back to an easy ride with a pub-goer. He pulled up to the gates and stopped in front of an office -like building.

"Here, lad, fare's one hundred quid, I'll cover the extra," Bill said with a wink, and Harry felt a brief rush of gratitude toward the man. He reached into his pocked and counted out Marge's money, handing it over to Bill. Bill then got out of the cab and helped Harry with his trunk, while Harry thanked him profusely. Keeping a beaming smile on his face while Bill drove off, Harry started walking towards the building. Once he was sure the cab was out of sight, he stopped, and sagged in relief.

He looked around the street cautiously. Where to go now? He was down a hundred pounds, and no decent hotels would accept a thirteen-year-old requesting a room. No, they'd inform the police and he'd be sent to the Dursley's or to a social care centre. So not happening. Harry slipped into a morose pondering of options, wondering at the chill in the air. He could survive this night, he was pretty sure, but he had to avoid the law enforcement.

No, Harry needed to remain away from authority figures, so he set down off the street, looking for a likely place to stay. The area he was in didn't seem to cater to homeless people – while not overly high-class, someone would still notice a child curled up in a doorway. Unless...

Harry had the invisibility cloak. What was stopping him from storing his trunk in some back alley and sleeping wrapped in his cloak? For one night, it just might work. He could work on more permanent accommodations the next day, when his brain could actually function.

Harry slipped into a side-alley that boasted a few trash cans and was dappled by a rusty fire-escape and scoped out a likely spot. He didn't notice the pale eyes following his every move.

Propping his trunk in a corner, Harry swiftly opened it and pulled out an extra jumper, his winter cloak, and started rooting around for his invisibility cloak. He didn't hear the shuffling footsteps behind him until too late.

Eddie had been having an off day. He worked in grounds maintenance, and summer seemed to give people the impression that they were entitled to trash his territory. Bloody rich blighters, with their pretty wives and poncy children. Capering about on the pond or playing swotty games like tennis or croquet. He couldn't stand them. He had absolutely no desire to return home to his disgusting wife and squalling brats – brats who he wasn't even allowed to discipline according to some upstart sociology major that had the flat across from them.

No, he didn't want to go back to that just yet – he needed a buffer. He needed a bloody drink.

Hours later, but still rather early by regular standards, he staggered out of the pub. The barkeep had looked at his clothes and assessed the mean look in his eye and demanded his tab be paid before kicking him out. He was a bit of a nasty drunk. As Eddie staggered down the street, he saw a small shadow slip into a darkened alley. With a shuffling gait, he made his way purposefully over to the entrance and peered into the gloom.

What he saw, he definitely liked. A small boy, his back to him, was bent over an opened trunk. He had a slim waist and petite bone structure underneath the tatty clothes he was sporting. His hair was rather dishevelled, just touching the back of his slender neck in places. He wasn't bad looking. And he was all alone.

He made his way over to the mysterious boy, who didn't hear him until he was a foot away. Startled, he turned swiftly and locked his gaze fearfully with Eddie's. Glowing green eyes, full of a delicious terror and weariness blazed out behind a pair of shabby glasses. Utterly entranced by those eyes, Eddie reached forward to roughly grab the boy. With only a feeble squeak from said child, Eddie had him successfully pinned against the wall of the building. The boy seemed to be utterly petrified, and simply shook as Eddie caressed his face with one hand, before roughly pawing at his baggy trousers with the other.

The boy finally realized what was going on, and tried to lash out, to get away from Eddie, but he was tired and it showed. As the boy gave a dry sob, Eddie managed to unbutton the fastenings, and leered at the boy, displaying crooked, yellowing teeth. Stressful days would be wiped away, Eddie thought, as he violently turned the boy around.

He was just pinning the delicate wrists above the boy's head when he heard the most heart-stopping, guttural growl coming from the mouth of the alley.

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><p>So! Harry makes it to London! Thoughts? I know the random guy is ... well ... random, but seriously. Harry runs away and he expects nothing bad to happen? He's Harry Potter – he must go through trials before he receives comfort! Tragic hero, people! And what was that infernal growling? Will Harry be saved? Find out next time when I feel like updating!<p>

Just to reiterate, though – I am aware that Harry could take a train, but if you saw a skruffy, bruised kid on a train with a huge trunk, what would a responsible adult do? The cab was easier to make a cover story for, and displayed a bit of Harry's cunning and whatnot. I don't believe Harry should be naive. Not that he's going to be some suddenly super-knowledgeable political and magical powerhouse, but he will be a bit more aware of his surroundings, and wary of people in general. Except when he's suffering from magical exhaustion after being beat up and traveling for over an hour. Then he is fair game for stupidity and letting his guard down.

Review and give me your thoughts!


	5. Chapter 5

Hey! Another chapter, and Harry and Sherlock finally meet!

I chose to do this from Sirius' point of view, because I think that Harry would be understandably shaken up by this attack. He has handled beatings and magical craziness pretty well, but attempted rape is very personal and I think it may be the straw that breaks the camel's back, as it were. Not that I've experienced that, but I know it is very traumatizing and I don't mean to make assumptions of people who have experienced that. I'm just trying to write here.

Thanks to all who have reviewed – I love getting input. If you haven't reviewed, no pressure, I'm glad you are reading anyway! Special thanks to black. – your input is thoughtful and insightful, and has helped me shape how I see Harry. Any feedback does that, it really helps!

General disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter, or derivatives of Conan Doyle's work.

Warnings: creepy pathetic drunks, vengeful dogs, confused thought-processes... the works.

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><p>Sirius sighed as he made his way down the darkened streets of Muggle London. He was absolutely exhausted – having escaped from Azkaban and swimming all the way to shore in dog form, he was rather more than emaciated. He still suffered from tremors due to over-exposure, both to the Dementors and the elements.<p>

Sirius knew that he had to make his move on the rat, and he also wanted to check on Harry, but first he needed information. He had one newspaper showing that the rat was alive and living with a wizarding family, but he should be in Egypt for the next few weeks. Sirius could only hope that the rat was too much of a coward to escape into the desert. No, he was sure that the rat would return with his keepers to England, and Sirius would be able to hunt him down.

So it was that a large black dog was seen roaming the streets of London. It had avoided the Leaky Cauldron so far, instead scrounging for food and resting where it could. A very kind older lady who seemed to live near a rather charming deli had fed him until he almost burst. He had wagged his tail and given her a doggy-grin, before making his way to the nearby park where he had hoped to catch up on some much-needed rest.

Now that darkness had fallen, Padfoot made his way out of the lush grounds of Regent's Park, and gloried in the sensation of being free. Twelve years of his life had been wasted on a stupid mistake, and he was _not_ going to screw things up this time. He had acted out of grief and fury when Hagrid had insisted on taking Harry, and look where that had gotten him! No, Sirius needed to plan this out, and make up for where he had failed his godson. He still wanted to kill the rat, but Pettigrew would be far more useful as evidence in his yet-to-have-taken-place trial. Padfoot growled. Let the rat live for now, squeeze everything you can from it, make sure Harry is safe – then _eviscerate the traitor_.

As a general plan, Sirius liked it.

Padfoot looked around and noticed he was in the general vicinity of the old biddy that fed him this morning. He speculated that he could probably get a few more meals out of her before he moved on; he needed to build up his strength for the slog up to Scotland.

As he padded his way down the paved streets, he saw a shadow slip into a darkened alley. Curious, Padfoot followed silently, and snuck his head around the corner, sniffing delicately.

A horrible wash of terror and angry lust assaulted his powerful sense of smell. Peering into the darkness, steely grey eyes widened at what he saw: a disheveled, drunken slob of a man had a small boy pinned to the grimy wall. The boy was quaking in silent terror; fear radiated from his small body as the monster pawed at his baggy trousers.

A fierce wave of protectiveness stormed within Sirius. How could someone do that to a child? It was bastards like this that made Sirius think maybe Azkaban had something going for it. Child-molesters definitely deserved a place in that hell hole.

With a horrible growl, Padfoot sprang towards the pair. The man looked up just in time to see a humongous black shape with slavering jaws and cold eyes bear down on him. His back slammed onto the dirty ground, and in his shock he released the young child. Padfoot now had the bastard firmly pinned, and was contemplating the pros and cons of ripping the bastard's throat out right there. The sod was gibbering in terror, and Padfoot's sharp nose detected the sour scent of the man pissing himself in fear. Disgusted, Sirius decided he had no desire to have any part of that man in contact with his mouth, even if it was to rip out his throat. He carefully stepped on bastard's windpipe, applying pressure with his large paw until the man passed out. Satisfied, Padfoot stepped back.

A soft whimper registered in his hearing, and he turned towards the child, cursing. He had done it again! Focusing more on the criminal than the injured child. The parallels to his failure with Harry hit him hard, and he made a mental note to get a hold on his emotions. If he was reacting like this as a dog, how in the world would he cope as a human? He should probably get help when he was no longer in danger of being arrested. He made to comfort the terrified boy, and found him oddly composed, if breathing a bit unsteadily.

As the boy looked up, gratitude shining in his eyes, Sirius received one of the largest, most heart-stopping shocks of his life. There was James – a thin, bruised James peering up at him with Lily's soulful green eyes.

What in the world was _Harry_ doing _here_? In London? In _Muggle_ London? At night-time? Why was he bruised and being sexually assaulted by drunk muggles? Padfoot whined as the questions and possibilities raced through his mind.

Sirius was almost positive that Harry wasn't staying with Remus. He didn't have the werewolf's scent on him at all – there was nothing that signified Harry had been in contact with the over-protective wolf. Then who was he staying with? The clothes he wore reeked of muggle design – and they were horrible rags, at that! Sirius was well aware that Azkaban had stolen most of his looks, but given the choice he would be dressed far better than Harry was! There was a faint smell of alcohol and a stale scent he had trouble placing until he remembered Lily's shrew of a sister. What in the world was Dumbledore thinking placing Harry with _her_? Taking in the hastily-packed trunk and numerous bruises, Sirius came to a startling conclusion: Harry was a runaway.

A deep pain settled into his heart. Sirius knew what it was like to have to flee one's family – for he assumed that is was Lily's stupid relatives that had gotten him into this state. Bloody prejudiced gits. For Harry to have to resort to this at thirteen, with no one to run to was heartbreaking. Did he have no friends to take him in? Sirius had gone to James' when he was blasted out of the Black's home, so why was Harry here?

He moved slowly forward and nosed Harry's hand. With a little laugh, the boy tentatively rubbed Padfoot's large black head.

"Thanks, boy" the young Potter whispered. "That was really great of you."

He suddenly wrapped his arms around the large dog's neck and sighed. It was a tremulous, shaky little sigh, and Sirius felt his heart bleeding at the sense of loneliness it conveyed.

"I can't believe it, this night just isn't for me," Harry said with a weak chuckle. Padfoot cocked his head inquiringly, and the boy continued. "First with blowing up Aunt Marge, and the Ministry probably out to get me, and now I've been – I've been -"

Here Harry glanced fearfully at the unconscious muggle. Sirius made a snap decision as things began to fall into place. Harry needed help, and he didn't think he could get it from the magical world. While Sirius knew that blowing up a muggle would get you a warning from the Ministry, Harry seemed to want to avoid the magicals, and Sirius was more than willing to go along with that, so Padfoot nudged the boy and went to collect the empty cage. With a whine, he pawed the still open trunk, and Harry finally got the hint and went to collect it. Sirius stood between Harry and the muggle the entire time, and they beat a hasty retreat out of the alley.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked softly. "I have some muggle money, but no one will take in a kid – they'll turn me right over!" He rested his hand on Padfoot's back while he dragged his trunk, looking about him in a lost manner. Padfoot gave a muffled 'yip' through his mouthful of cage, and made his way down the street towards the nice lady's door. She was a kind-enough soul, and Sirius was almost positive she was a feed-first ask questions later kind of woman. She fussed, and she didn't discriminate. Just what Harry needed.

The almost-teenager seemed content enough to follow a great bloody dog down the unfamiliar city streets, and looked up in bemused surprise when they stopped on the doorstep of a building that said 221 on it. There was a light on in an upstairs window, and Padfoot hurriedly scratched at the door, making pitiful whining sounds.

A shadow crossed the window, unseen to the pair on the stoop, and lingered there for a few moments, taking in the odd sight of a boy and a dog on the doorstep. The shadow moved away.

Padfoot's ears perked forwards as he heard distant footsteps coming down the stairs. But wait! Those were heavy steps, not the steps of an older lady! Dubious, he glanced back at Harry, before deciding that whoever the lady had in her house was probably a good person. Of course, he didn't know that her ex-husband had been executed for his crimes over the pond... but that was besides the point.

The door slowly opened, and Sirius witnessed the meeting of Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. The two brunettes gazes – one icy blue and the other vivid green – met over the scruffy beast of a dog. Little did that dog know the effect this meeting would have on his and Harry's lives.

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><p>Hello, thanks for reading!<p>

I hope I didn't confuse people with the Padfoot/Sirius characterization. To make things clearer, Sirius is used when describing thought process and the like, whereas Padfoot describes the physical actions because he is in his dog form. I hope that makes sense?

I'll be alternating between points of view with this story, so I may backtrack to give different views on the same events. I know that this is sometimes boring, but I like to get thought process down and see what different characters think. Limited omniscience works OK for some things, but we have several important characters here, and I like to play God a little. Omniscience helps me get there. Hehe.

So Sirius succeeds in rescuing Harry, and sets a course that I hope will be more sane and conducive to freeing him. Hopefully Sherlock's logical thinking will allow Sirius to take a step back and become a responsible Godfather. Not that Sherlock is responsible, but it could serve as a catalyst ... well, the protective instinct toward Harry is there, so that's good. We'll make a non-murderer of him yet.

Reviews are appreciated, if you have any thoughts or suggestions, let me know! Thank you to all who have reviewed!


	6. Chapter 6

Wow long chapter! Thanks for reviewing and reading!

I know this was a fast update, but I was able to get a grasp on Sherlock and I didn't want to lose it. I think this chapter is longer than the others because Sherlock _thinks_ so much more than other people. I had to get his observations and mannerisms in, and I know I didn't get him perfectly, but I think I conveyed his general tone. It was crap trying to get his speech patterns down – sorry guys!

General disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter, or derivatives of Conan Doyle's work.

Warnings: confused thinking, rambling train of thought, totally unsuspicious man inviting starved waif and dog into home. Sherlock might be slightly out of character, because I don't think anyone could imitate him properly, so I'll just do what I can.

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><p><strong>CH 6<strong>

Sherlock was bored.

There were no cases at the moment – everyone, even criminals, seemed to want to go along with the concept of Summer Vacation. Absolutely nothing was happening that was of any interest, and Sherlock thought he might just die if nothing interesting happened soon.

He didn't even have his pet distractions! John and Mrs. Hudson had cruelly ganged up on him and cleared the majority of his experiments from the kitchen, railing on about 'sanitation' and 'health codes' and such. Like Sherlock _cared_. That was weeks of observation and dubiously-acquired material gone to waste!

Lestrade was bungling along in his investigations, so far managing to stay on track. By on track, Sherlock of course meant that he was moving vaguely in the direction of the obvious conclusion to his cases, and though it would be slow-going for the incompetent force, they would reach their objective – eventually. So Sherlock couldn't be bothered to go and give them whatever nudge they needed to find their answers; the criminals had left a trail so obvious Sherlock had given the case a surreptitious glance and groaned in despair at the stupidity of mankind.

Brother Mycroft was being blessedly silent. Sherlock absolutely abhorred his brother's interference in his life, but sparring with him did alleviate the boredom that came with existence, if only barely. It had always been so; Sherlock and Mycroft attempting to out-genius the other, while mummy looked on at her precocious boys. It was getting old – old! And Sherlock wanted something new. But alas, there was nothing new. Everything has already been done before, and only minor variations can be made to any course of action.

For a while, Dr. John Watson was new. The ex-military surgeon was refreshing in that he appreciated Sherlock's deductions and did not immediately label him a freak. Sherlock appreciated that greatly, even if the sentimental fool ignored the beautiful science of his actions and instead _romanticized_ the cases into a bloody _story_. He was the oddest man. Sherlock thought that they got on very well, better than most, but that wasn't really saying much.

For instance, John had left rather abruptly earlier this evening for some reason Sherlock was certain had to do with him. Why John took being called an idiot so _personally_ was beyond him; a statement of fact was nothing to get upset over, and relative to Sherlock, almost everyone was an idiot. So there was no reason for John to go flouncing off to Sarah's just so he could sleep on her too-small couch that would give him horrible pains in his neck that he would be rubbing for the next two and a half days which would further irritate his injured shoulder due to the increased motion -

Sherlock let out an impatient breath. _Not_ a sigh. Was it possible to become even more bored than this? He cursed John for hiding his nicotine patches (he could, of course, find them with ease, but he suspected that John had just taken them and _pretended_ to hide them before binning them. Prat.)

As Sherlock mused about the unfairness and staleness of existence, and of the irritating, self-righteous ways of doctors, his sharp hearing picked up a scratching at the door.

He moved towards the window, and the scratching continued with a muffled whine. Mrs. Hudson certainly would not hear the animal (large canine, probably in ill-health) at the door, and Sherlock silently cursed his landlady for her obsession with feeding every pathetic thing she came across. She had most likely fed the mutt earlier today and it had returned, seeking shelter from the cruel streets of London.

Glancing out the window, Sherlock's eyes glinted as he took in a peculiar sight. He saw a ruffled, messy black head of hair standing beside an absolutely monstrous black hound. The hair belonged to a small boy (pre-teen, evidence of malnourishment in delicate wrists and hollow cheeks; evidence of assault in facial bruises and rumpled clothes) who was clutching a rather bulky and awkward trunk. The dog, which looked to be ridiculously scruffy and even more malnourished than the boy, was still scratching at the door, an empty metal cage resting beside it.

Sherlock considered the pair, as he moved towards the stairs. He could contact Lestrade and let the police deal with what was obviously a case of assault on a minor, along with a case of a runaway, but as mentioned before, Sherlock was bored. He decided to reserve judgement until her could observe the pair and see what their tale was. He couldn't believe he was reduced to picking up waifs off the street to keep his mind occupied, but such was the life of a sociopathic genius, he supposed.

Sherlock opened the door, and light flooded out of the hallway to illuminate a bruised face framed with untidy black hair and covered in bruises. Sherlock's gaze locked onto twin pools of emerald green covered by ratty glasses, and took in the sight of the boy.

As observed upstairs, the boy had flyaway black hair, and was sporting an almost alarming amount of facial bruises. The varied colouration of the bruises suggested that whoever had assaulted the boy had done so over an extended period of time, as long ago as a week, and as recently as tonight. Moving on to the eyes, Sherlock detected the salty residue of tears and slightly irritated flesh, indicated that the boy had been crying recently.

Eyes roving over the rest of the boy, Sherlock compiled a list of afflictions: hand-markings on the throat and wrists that resulted in bruising, paleness and tightness of skin indicative of malnourishment, wariness of posture that suggested a history and expectation of abuse, tenseness of the jaw and shoulders that told of continued and unalleviated pain (most likely in the upper torso), shoddily done up and slightly torn trousers, showing dirt that could be found in alleys near to here, indicating that the boy had been – Sherlock's eyes widened in slight horror. Obviously the boy had not been raped, but it had been a close thing. Many thought Sherlock to be absolutely heartless, but even he, who delighted in the thrill of chasing down and deducing a killer from the angle at which he decapitated his victims, could not stand the assault of a child.

A slight whine closer to him drew his attention. Ah, yes. The dog. It was massive and black and shaggy – of an indeterminate breed (though if he had to _guess_ he would suggest some sort of cross between a Newfoundland and an Irish Wolfhound) and positively emaciated. It's fur was matted and dull, but its steely grey eyes were bright and almost pleading.

They made quite a pair, Sherlock mused, the boy and his dog. The boy was almost certainly a runaway, judging by his ... trunk?

Sherlock paused. His interest flickered. His brain, moving at speeds that would make a legilimens dizzy, realized that with the trunk, his night of boredom had come to an end. There was only one thing to do.

"Hello," Sherlock said, pinning a smile that John called mildly unsettling onto his face. The boy started at being addressed, and glanced at the tense dog, as if waiting for a cue. Sherlock noted this behaviour and continued, "I assume you are in need of assistance? Come up and I will see what can be done."

He turned abruptly and led the way into the hallway and started up the stairs. After only a slight hesitation, he heard the quiet steps of the dog, and the slight rattle of the cage as it was picked up (by the dog?). He then heard the drag of the trunk, and turned back to look at the boy and the dog who had made their way into the foyer.

"Close the door, if you wouldn't mind. Do you need help with the trunk?" Sherlock asked, desperate to get his hands on it, but cautious enough to know the boy needed the security of his possessions. The boy looked exhausted as he closed the door, but he shook his head and shifted his grip on his luggage determinedly.

Sherlock gave a curt nod and made his way into 221 B, clearing some books and papers from the sofa and graciously offering it to the boy, who sat down with a small sigh and a wary glance around him. Sherlock saw him take in the books, the skull, the violin, before his gaze flitted to Sherlock, pinning him and studying his face and posture minutely, before glazing over into a blank, innocent expression.

How fascinating.

The boy was obviously very observant – how much, he did not know – but he had the right idea. He was also practiced with lying, and could do it rather well. His face gave little away, and the boy was extremely tired! Sherlock sat in a winged armchair and steepled his fingers, facing the boy. The dog sniffed the air, nudged the boy's foot slightly, then settled at his feet. The boy looked down bemusedly before shifting his gaze back to Sherlock, tilting his head so that he was looking through his fringe.

"My name," Sherlock began, "is Sherlock Holmes. I can see that you are a runaway in a bad position, who has suffered at the hands of your caretakers. The residue on your trainers indicates that you are from the Surrey area, and I believe I am correct in saying that you wish to avoid the police."

At his words, the boy's head snapped up, eyes widening slightly in shock, and the dog whined, shifting anxiously. How curious – it was most likely in reaction to the boy, but to Sherlock it seemed as if the dog was reacting to his stated deductions. Interesting. As the boy had jerked his head up, his hair shifted, and Sherlock saw a curious and poorly-healed scar in the shape of a bolt of lightning. What in the world could cause _that_? Sherlock wondered. It was most certainly curious, and would have to be looked into. The boy saw him gazing at his forehead, and it seemed as if he was horrified at first, but after a searching emerald look, the boy calmed, obviously reassured by whatever Sherlock had done. Had he expected him to recognize the scar? Sherlock supposed it was quite distinctive. Cataloguing that thought elsewhere for the moment, Sherlock continued.

"May I ask your name, and details as to how you have come to be here? I will not turn you over to the police," Sherlock said dryly, noticing the tense and nervous attitude the boy had adopted at the questions.

After a short pause, the boy said in a quiet voice, "I'm ...Harry. And you're right – I ran away." He shifted on the couch. "I appreciate this, really. You not telling. They'll ... they'd probably send me back, if they found me. Uncle Ve – well, he'd kill me if I went back." This last was said resignedly, but it had the ring of truth. The boy yawned, obviously exhausted, the adrenaline of his undoubtedly action-packed evening leaving him. His eyes darkened as his lids drooped.

Making a decision, Sherlock said, "Well, Harry, enough questions for now. You may sleep there tonight – and your dog on the rug, if you please." Sherlock made his way to the kitchen, where his slaughtered experiments lay among some boxes of biscuits and random fruits that John had most likely picked up somewhere. Shifting some biscuits onto a mostly-clean plate, Sherlock filled a glass of water and brought it out to Harry. He placed the scanty rations on the low coffee table and said,

"This should last you until morning. I don't doubt that Mrs. Hudson will delight in feeding the both of you, but I've not had occasion to shop recently."

Harry took a biscuit and passed it to the dog, which practically inhaled the treat. He then took one for himself and nibbled at it, before saying, "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, sir. I have money if -"

Sherlock waved the thought away impatiently.

"Money is nothing to me. Sleep, and your wounds will be tended in the morning. My flat-mate is a doctor; he'll be back by then. I shall remain here," he sat down in the armchair, "and finish my book, if you don't mind the light." Harry nodded and laid down, covering himself with the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He reached down and patted the dog's head, before his eyes fluttered and he fell into a deep sleep almost instantly.

Sherlock waited five minutes. He glanced at the dog over his book. The dog was watching him. Sherlock waited another ten minutes. Looking up, he saw that the dog was still watching him. He wondered if he should give the massive mutt a sedative, but then he reminded himself that it was only a dog – it wouldn't care about what he does.

So Sherlock got up, and made his way towards the boy's – Harry's – trunk. It was fascinating – a normal runaway would pack a backpack, or a suitcase at the largest. Something easy to carry, that would hold the worldly goods they thought they would require. A trunk is something so counter-intuitive to running away that it must have some special significance. Which begged the question: _What was in the trunk ?_ Sherlock wanted to know.

As he made to open it, a dark blur moved in the corner of his sight. Suddenly, large yellow teeth encased in a black snout were being shoved in his face. He blinked. The dog had positioned himself between Sherlock and the trunk. Sherlock huffed. It had obviously been trained to protect the boy's possessions. Well, the trunk could wait. He was sure to get an answer eventually.

Sherlock sat back in the chair, and contemplated the dog. The dog stared a Sherlock for a time, before lying down right in front of the trunk. It had positioned itself so that if could easily meet Sherlock's eyes. Blue met grey in a battle of wills, a battle which lasted through the night and well into the early hours of morning. The green eyes in the room remained obscured by purpled lids, as Harry slept, his starved frame being devoured by the large, comfortable couch.

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><p>Ugh that was difficult. Thoughts? Next we'll get back in touch with Harry, and maybe introduce John! Should Harry tell his full name? When will Sherlock find out about magic? What will John think? How is Sirius taking their host? So many questions, not enough planning. I'll write as soon as I can, but midterms and term papers and other term-things get in the way.<p>

This chapter was all about one-sided observations. The most important ones, I think, are Sherlock's observations on the behaviour of Sirius, and his thoughts on the trunk. Most people wouldn't blink twice, they'd just think – okay, a bit weird, but bringing a trunk on a runaway is pretty odd. Good for Sirius for guarding it though – it would be no fun if Sherlock found out about magic immediately!

On Harry's side, he's really tired, so his thought process is a bit slow, but he did notice the lack of reaction to the scar. He trusts Sherlock, mostly because of Sirius.

So that's chapter six! Reviews are welcome, as always. I hope my Sherlock didn't disappoint too much :)


	7. Chapter 7

Another chapter! How much do you love me? My essays certainly don't – they are feeling awfully neglected, but I am procrastinating. Don't complain – the story seems to be benefitting.

So John meets Harry and Sirius. Interesting. Don't really know what to say here, just giving a bit of background on John, and recapping Harry's POV since the alley.

General disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter, or derivatives of Conan Doyle's work.

Warnings: multiple POVs, mild descriptions of abuse, this is a light slash fic, bashing of people who deserve it... the works. If you don't like it, then I will have to hunt you down and plant furbies in your closet. JK. I'm not that mean. I'd probably just cry and read my positive reviews to make me feel better.

Speaking of, thanks for the reviews! I love you people! I can't believe I have 70 reviews – you are awesome! Special thanks to black., mist shadow, berkie88, ., and RRW for your input! If you keep saying such nice things, I'll be forced to write more... haha.

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><p><strong>Ch 7<strong>

Harry was floating – his body ached, but it was cradled by soft, soft cushions that most certainly were not his thin mattress at the Dursley's. So, where in the world was he? Without opening his eyes, Harry tried to remember the previous night.

Ah. Aunt Marge – Uncle Vernon – blowing up of said aunt – beating from said uncle – petty theft – catching of a taxi – going into the alley -

Ah.

Harry suppressed a shudder. That had been absolutely horrifying. Never in his life had he felt so helpless and _unclean_. At his relatives' house, the worst they ever did was cuff him over the head or swing a frying pan. Yesterday... well, yesterday they had been severely pushed to the absolute edge of what little magical tolerance they had. Didn't make Vernon _right_ for beating the crap out of him, but it wasn't like it was a routine thing. Harry decided that he was way to cavalier about being, essentially, abused and he just _knew_ it would come back to bite him in the ass someday.

It was just that it was difficult to take his issues in the muggle world too seriously when one had teachers that attempted to kill him or dirty great snakes being let loose by a shade of the Dark Lord. But at Hogwarts, in magical crises, Harry had been fighting for his _life_. He knew what he was getting into, and he considered it worth the risk, if he were able to complete his objective. It was brash, it was arguably stupid, but it made sense to him at the time.

Last night... last night made no sense. It was embarrassing. It was disgusting. It had caught him completely off-guard, and he had not been able to do anything to stop it. That muggle man had completely overpowered him, and he had felt utterly helpless. Not even when he was dying from Basilisk venom had Harry been as terrified as when that _bastard_ had successfully pawed open his pants.

Harry shuddered mentally. Thank whatever wizard God we swear to for that dog, he thought. Out of absolutely nowhere, a great shaggy black saviour had swooped down and saved him. It was like that muggle superhero Batman that Dudders liked reading about. Except it was not a man. Or bat-like. It was a dog. Oh dear, he was rambling in his own head. Not a good sign.

The dog seemed surprisingly intelligent. Its grey eyes seemed so concerned and protective, and it had guided Harry away from that alley and led him to this place. Wherever this was. The home of Mr... Harry grinned. Right. The home of Mr. Holmes. Easy enough to remember.

If the dog was odd, the man was doubly so. He had invited both Harry and the dog in with no questions at all. Harry was in a slight daze at the time – he had tentatively self-diagnosed it as shock – so he had only paused to let the dog see if it was alright. For some reason, he trusted the dog's judgement. Or senses. Can dogs have judgement? Whatever.

Somehow, the man had been able to find out things about Harry, disturbingly accurate facts that made Harry think at first that his host was a wizard. He saw the man's gaze fix on his scar with nothing more than curiosity, however, so it was most likely that he was a muggle.

Harry had been too exhausted last night to talk much, and the man had, in a detached sort of way, been kind enough to offer up his (very comfortable) sofa for Harry to sleep on. He supposed he would have to get up soon – he had to figure out where he would go now. He absolutely could not end up on the street again.

Overcome by a mild anxiety, Harry almost missed the sound of the front door opening. Footsteps on the stairs revealed that someone was approaching the suite – Harry decided to 'sleep' a little longer. He heard the door open and there was a long silence. After some time, during which Harry strived valiantly not to squirm, a mellow voice made its way into the room.

"Sherlock ..."

O_o

John Watson sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a normal life. A few months ago, he had been convinced that his life couldn't get any more messed up. He had an alcoholic sister, who had recently ended her relationship with her partner. His parents were dead. He had horrible luck with women. He was a war veteran who was forced to see a shrink. He had assumed he was extremely abnormal.

Normality was redefined when he moved in with the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly, John was plunged into a world of murder investigations and absolutely, depressingly brilliant thought processes. He kept company with a self-defined sociopath and a human skull. His refrigerator housed severed digits and disturbing experiments. His blog had more about his flatmate and their adventures than himself.

Living with Sherlock was extremely surreal. He was so much _more _that other people – he was a genius for minutiae and deductive reasoning. That being said, he was absolutely incompetent when it came to the most basic of societal cues. He was forever dismissive and condescending, exhibiting one faux pas after the other with a casual indifference, leaving John to sort out the mess he left.

He was selfish, sloppy, lazy and driven by alarming degrees, knowledgeable and ignorant ... he was a walking contradiction, and John was quite overwhelmed at times.

Such as last night. He knew that Sherlock was not malicious in his statements (at least towards him), but being called an idiot had crossed the line on a particularly trying day. It hadn't helped that the flatmates were peeved at each other due to a 'kitchen spat'. John had quite honestly been concerned for their health if he had allowed Sherlock's dubious and at times appalling experiments to continue, so he had commissioned a willing Mrs. Hudson to purge the place. Sherlock had gotten extremely testy, and they had had what Mrs. Hudson dubbed a 'domestic'.

This further aggravated John, for he was tired of people assuming that he and Sherlock were in some kind of romantic relationship. He was certain that Sherlock could never even _consider_ a strong emotional and physical attachment to any person, and John saw Sherlock as more of an asexual automaton with a predilection for solving crime.

So it was with extreme aggravation that John fled 221 B after Sherlock had called him an idiot for not being able to keep up with a deduction of his.

Git. He'd had to spend the night on Sarah's sofa – a fact that Sherlock would no doubt point out by using various invisible-to-John clues.

Sarah... that was another thing. His romantic life – never an extremely amazing topic – had been affected very negatively during the past few months. His interest in Sherlock's cases had lead to inattentiveness towards dates; that coupled with said dates _meeting_ Sherlock and his cutting tongue, he was surprised his picture hadn't been posted across London as 'Undesirable Boyfriend No. 1."

So it was that John tiredly made his way back to the flat in the early hours of the morning. Sarah had had an early shift at the clinic, and John felt uncomfortable staying at her place without her. He made his way up the stairs, and took a deep breath before entering the room.

_Sherlock is probably asleep. I'll just go in, make a cup of tea, and we won't mention yesterday at all._ Course of action decided, John entered the room.

He stopped as soon as the door opened, sensing something _off_ about the scene before him. There was the coffee table, with a plate of biscuits. There was Sherlock, motionless in his armchair, gazing unblinkingly at ... a dog. A great beast of a dog that was sprawled in front of a trunk that _definitely_ hadn't been there last night. John blinked.

His eyes flitted to the couch, and they widened. There was a small boy curled up under a blanket, sleeping. He was older than ten, but couldn't be older than thirteen, and his shock of black hair was sticking up in every direction. Trying to piece together everything in his mind, he turned to Sherlock.

Hesitantly, almost fearing the answer, (for _why_ would _Sherlock_ bring a child up here? He never gave any indication of even _tolerating _children! Was it a relative? A case? An ..) John asked,

"Sherlock ... please tell me this isn't another mad experiment of yours ..."

Several things happened at once. The boy's shoulders stiffened; the dog growled menacingly; and Sherlock, observing both, smirked.

Weakly, John continued, "I'm serious, Sherlock – if you're bringing kids in off the street, I'm going to have to put my foot down. It's enough you bring those mad things back from Bart's, but ..." John trailed off weakly, and he met the now open eyes of the young boy.

They were very green, he noticed immediately, and framed with dark eyelashes that matched his hair. As he continued to survey the boy's face, he grew gradually alarmed. There were signs of bruising! Instantly, his medical training took over, and he cautiously approached the lad.

Sherlock was watching, and decided to answer John's queries.

"His name is Harry, and he and the dog showed up at the door last night. He has travelled from Surrey by taxi to the Regent's Park area, and made a brief stop in a nearby alley." Here, the boy, Harry, flinched, and the dog growled again. Continuing, Sherlock said, "he appears to have been assaulted; you can see the facial bruising, and there is also undetermined injuries to his torso and arms. Possibly cracked ribs, but likelihood of breakages is low."

John had grown alarmed as he heard this list declared so nonchalantly. He made his way towards Harry swiftly, and the dog suddenly sprang up, looking anxious.

"He has all of those injuries and you didn't even _bother _to treat him? You know first-aid, Sherlock, I know you do!" John exclaimed. The dog was acting most peculiarly, nosing Harry gently and looking (glaring?) at Sherlock by turns. Harry himself was staying quiet, watching the two men nervously. He stroked the dog's fur, seeming to calm down at the contact.

Sherlock shrugged. "I knew you'd be along this morning, and his injuries were not so severe that he couldn't wait for a qualified medical practitioner," he said. "Harry, meet Dr. John Watson, my flatmate. John, if you please?" he asked, gesturing towards Harry. John was at first inclined to glare at Sherlock, but he saw his pale eyes survey Harry with a guarded concern, which appeased John's ruffled feathers.

John approached Harry, smiling gently. Harry assessed John with a cautious emerald gaze, and the black dog shifted his steely grey eyes from John to Sherlock suspiciously.

John cleared his throat, and said in his best bedside-manner voice, "Hello, Harry, John Watson. I share the flat with him," nodding toward a still gently smirking Sherlock. "Please excuse his rudeness, he can't help being a bit of an idiot," he continued, receiving an offended glance from Sherlock, a weak smile from Harry, and for some reason a snort from the dog. Only mildly put off, John said, "do you mind if I take a look at your injuries? We'll get you patched up and you can tell us about yourself." He had meant to put Harry on his ease, but a brief look of alarm flashed across his face before he schooled his features into blank politeness.

Before John could reassure the boy, Sherlock broke in, addressing Harry. "John is a trained medical professional," he said, "and he is very good at what he does." John's eyebrows raised. A compliment? From _Sherlock?_

Sherlock continued, "I think that you will not be wanting to alert the officials to your state, so unless you wish to be admitted to a clinic or hospital, John will care for you adequately." He smirked at the boy, who eyes flitted between the men carefully. Slowly, Harry nodded, and Sherlock's smirk widened infinitesimally.

Intrigued, John turned Harry to face him and started examining his bruises. They were in several stages of healing, ranging from an ugly dark purple to an off-yellow that stood out on the boy's otherwise pale skin. Frowning gently, he asked Harry to take off his shirt. After some hesitance, Harry glanced around and finally, with a deep breath he nodded and divested himself of the garment.

John hissed at seeing the patchwork of bruises on the boy's ribs and back, and the dog was growling dangerously, biting off the guttural sounds and pacing across the carpet. This boy had obviously been beaten, it didn't take Sherlock to tell him that! And if it were true, and the boy was from Surrey... John eyed the trunk, and something clicked. A runaway? Sherlock's assurances made sense, as John reflected on the boy's wary and suspicious nature so far.

John's eyes hardened as he turned to Sherlock, who was watching the scene avidly, no doubt dissecting the poor boy who was silently cringing on the sofa. With a soft voice that was tight with contained anger, John looked at Sherlock and said, "explain."

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><p>Okay! I think that could have gone better, but worry not! Next chapter I plan to have a partial explanation of Harry's circumstances. It will be interesting to see to what lengths Harry will go to to worm his way out of the questions about the Magical world. And what will John find? Mycroft will probably make an appearance soon, for those that were wondering, but not next chapter. And Sherlock knows that <em>something<em> is off, but it will take a while to arrive at magic. Not sure how that's going to work out.

John ... was difficult. I was trying to progress the story and give the thought-process, and it was difficult to reconcile the two. I hope it didn't get boring or repetitive. It felt stilted while writing... oh well. Review and tell me how it went, and I should be able to touch up the characters when next I write. Which I seem to be doing a lot of lately...

Anyways, reviews people! Or just reading, but input makes for better details, at least it does for me. Really, you're saving yourself from boredom if you review. Think of it as an investment! I really appreciate that you like my story so far! I'll work on it as I can – I've still got several pages to write, so I'll most likely be revisiting this to procrastinate :D


	8. Chapter 8

I AM SO SORRY! Sorry for the delay, sorry for not updating, whatever. I have decided that March is an evil month for the University Student. Add that to the fact I just started a new job - well, time has been thin on the ground. Forgive me!

This chapter is a bit fluffy, but I thought it would add some cute whatever to the story. I hope you like it, I needed to get back in the Seeing and Observing mind-set, so I didn't feel that tackling much plot would do me - or you readers - any good.

This is mostly John's POV, but don't worry, we'll get back to Harry, Sirius and Sherlock in time.

General disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter, or derivatives of Conan Doyle's work.

Warnings: This will eventually be a slash fic, but that won't be for a while. I'm also going to call a bunch of adults on incompetence and manipulation or mean-ness, so don't mind me if I start 'bashing' someone.

Thank you so much for your reviews and input! I can't believe I'm over 100 Reviews! Please keep them coming, I love hearing your thoughts and suggestions! Special thanks to black. - you always have such great input and observations; RRW - I totally agree with what you've been saying about justice; and to The Cocky Bitch - your input is just the kind of thing that I love to write for! Thank you for being candid and asking questions - it makes it much easier to solidify the story when I think about answers to questions I haven't asked yet!

I love all of the reviews I get - each one gives me a warm little glow. Mushiness and love for you aside, here is the next chapter!

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><p>Ch 8<p>

Sherlock explained, in the briefest and most infuriatingly succinct terms, the events of the previous evening. As always, each statement he made begged for several explanations, which John childishly refused to ask. At the end of it all, John came away with the understanding that Harry and the dog had showed up late last night, probably from Surrey (damn if he was going to ask Sherlock _why_ he knew that), and was apparently a runaway. An injured, potentially abused runaway.

Harry had sat through the conversation with a tense and wary air, alternately stroking the dog's large head and nervously fiddling with his over-large clothing.

John sighed and smiled tiredly at the young boy. His heart ached for what the boy had been through – Harry hadn't given any details, but the look of resigned wariness had no place on such a young face, in John's opinion. It was the eyes, he mused, those startling green eyes were shadowed with the same knowledge that John and his fellow soldiers had returned to England with. That had John baffled – what in the world had happened to the boy? Harry hadn't been exactly forthcoming, but of course _Sherlock_ had been able to deduce several things about him.

Glancing at his more-than-slightly-insane flatmate, he saw Sherlock with a familiar look in his eyes. Sherlock had apparently found a new puzzle – the runaway Harry. John was sure that Harry was being figuratively torn apart in Sherlock's mind, and he had the small satisfaction of seeing a slight wrinkle in Sherlock's brow; evidently there was something that wouldn't add up.

That gave him pause – what was it about this boy? He had eyes shadowed with horrors, and the great deductive mind of Sherlock was stumbling over him. Sherlock's eyes were now fixated on Harry's hand, which was stroking the beast of a dog.

Shaking his head, John addressed Harry.

"Well, enough of this serious stuff," Harry and the dog both turned their heads to look at him. "Would you like anything to eat? What's your dog's name?"

Harry blinked slowly, and gazed down at the dog, seemingly surprised to find his fingers curled into its shaggy fur. He blushed slightly, and said in a quiet voice,

"He's not exactly my dog, Dr. Watson. He, er, found me last night. I don't know his name." Harry shifted uncomfortably, and the dog nosed his thigh, grinning a doggy-grin.

Sherlock's gaze sharpened, and John groaned inwardly.

"But you are obviously familiar with the dog," Sherlock stated. "It is extremely protective of you, and appears to have been trained as a guard of some sort. It also appears to be somewhat intelligent." His piercing blue eyes never left the boy and the strange dog.

Harry looked uncomfortable, and glanced at his hands, before replying.

"I, well I don't know about the training and stuff, but he seems really nice," the dog gave a gruff bark and licked Harry's hand, coaxing a smile from the boy. "He found be a few blocks from here last night and he -" here Harry paused, his breath hitching. He took a shaky breath and continued, "He led me here. He took the cage, and I followed him." He resumed petting the dog, who was studying Sherlock now.

"Yes, the cage," Sherlock said with a crisp nod towards the corner it sat in. "I see that it houses a large white bird on occasion. Where is this bird now?"

Now Harry really looked uncomfortable, John noticed. His face screwed up, and his eyes shifted between Sherlock, John and the cage. Sherlock watched with a bland smile on his face, and John wondered if he should step in. But no, Sherlock was on one of his mad tracks, and running interference would only make Sherlock do something duplicitous and possibly stressful to Harry in order to gain the information. John sometimes wondered if there was a line Sherlock _wouldn't_ cross in order to gain knowledge, but he reflected that, short of murder, probably not. At least, John hoped Sherlock would draw some sort of line at murder...

His musings were interrupted by Harry's soft voice.

"Well ... I sort of have this pet," he began. "She's an owl. She was out ... hunting when I ran away."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You own a domesticated snowy owl? And you let it out on a regular basis? Does it return to you?" he inquired.

Now Harry's face was scrunched up in a way that John thought would have been endearing if he wasn't so visibly upset. The great dog shifted and fixed his gaze on Sherlock, barely blinking or moving.

"Umm. I'm not sure if I'd say domesticated," Harry said. "The groundskeeper at my school gave her to me. She likes me, so she comes back after hunting."

John saw Sherlock's eyes light up, and he knew that another tangent of questions would begin if he didn't intervene.

"Right!" he said, "Well, Harry, we'll have to see about naming that dog then, won't we? It doesn't seem to be going anywhere. Now I'm sure you're hungry, seeing as Sherlock didn't feed you last night, so let's knock up Mrs. Hudson and see if she's got anything." While saying this, John had started toward the kitchen before realizing that nothing edible could possibly exist in there.

Instead, he left the flat and knocked at Mrs. Hudson's door. The older lady smiled when she saw him – John was her favourite boarder. It's not that she didn't love Sherlock, it was just that the things he did affected her poor nerves tremendously. He was a most trying man! But John was such a dear – so sweet and mild-mannered, and him being a war doctor! She was quite proud of the boarders who she thought of as 'her boys', always running off on their adventures. Dear Sherlock had helped her out with that spot of bother with her late husband, and John was now always there to help her out with Sherlock. Her inner reflections were interrupted when John spoke.

"Mrs. Hudson, do you think we could get something to eat upstairs? I hate to ask, but the kitchen is .., well ..." John smiled and shrugged sheepishly.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and tutted, "What is it now, another severed head? Maybe a set of toes? The man is positively _indecent_ with what he thinks can go in a kitchen! I'll get you something straight away, dear. Just this once you understand – I'm not your housekeeper!"

John smiled at Mrs. Hudson's trill of denial. No matter what she said, she always fed them when they needed food. Such a sweet lady. He turned and went back to the room, where Sherlock had thankfully abandoned the interrogation for the time being and seized upon the opportunity to name the dog. Harry's eyes were wide with shock, and the dog in question was looking almost aprehensively at Sherlock, who was spouting a list of names.

"Althelney, perhaps, or maybe Milverton! Shinwell or Bartholomew would work, or Dubugue," Sherlock – John did a double take, but retained his initial observation – Sherlock _prattled_ on to a bemused Harry. At the last name, the dog had buried his snout in Harry's lap, and Harry clenched his fist in the fur on its head. John began to hear a pattern in the names being suggested now; they all seemed to have something to do with music or composers.

"Ludwig or Beethoven, very dignified names, both of them. I would only hope that the dog's hearing does not deteriorate at the same rate as the namesake. No? Mendelssuhn, perhaps, or Eichelburger? Not especially traditional, and if you are looking for a name that will fit on a name tag, then I understand your hesitance to use those," John looked at Harry, and he knew that fitting either name on a dog tag was the absolute last issue he had with the suggested names.

"You might name it Chopin, then, if you are concerned with the length of the names ..." Sherlock was _still _going, and Harry's eyes were beginning to glaze over.

Desperately, John decided to cut in before Sherlock broke the poor boy.

"Sherlock, maybe something more descriptive of the dog? Something more ... dog-like?"

Sherlock shot the doctor a scathing look. With a sneer, he said, "Dull. A descriptor? Are we now back to the times of 'Spot' and 'Old Yeller'? Why not just call the mutt 'Blackie' and be done with it?"

Harry had snapped out of his daze by this point, mostly aided by the dog, which had shifted and whined at Sherlock's latest nomination. John sighed as Sherlock began to wax eloquent – as if there were any other way he would deign to – on the woes of 'descriptor' names.

"Perhaps we should call it 'Shadow' to play on the mystique! Or 'Bear' to allude to its massive size? Or perhaps 'Wolf'? Or lets even make it a bit obscure and illuminate something like food-preference or agility..."

John was in awe. He had never realized that Sherlock would take something like _naming a dog_ so seriously. Both older men were interrupted by a hesitant noise from Harry.

"Ah, thank you for your ... suggestions," he began. "Maybe – maybe we could give him a name that's a bit of both?" he asked with a timid look between them.

"A bit of both – what do you mean?" asked John.

"Well, we could do a fancy music name like Mr. Sherlock likes, but it can also be about how the dog is," Harry said, warming up to his idea.

"A fancy music name?" asked Sherlock with a raised brow. "So you recognized the composers I was listing?"

Harry shrugged. "A few. Aunt – my Aunt has some classical music for smart parties," he said, stumbling over the mention of his relatives.

John saw Sherlock debating whether or not to pursue a line of questioning on Harry's family, but he apparently decided that naming the dog took precedence for the time being. "So your thoughts on the name?" he prompted.

"Oh, yeah. Well, what about that Mozart guy? Wolfgang Ama-something, right? We could name him Wolfgang to be all official, but I'll probably just end up calling him Wolf. Neat, huh?" Harry grinned, and looked at the rather wild-looking canine. John had to admit the name fit. Sherlock was smirking, probably at the inclusion of Mozart in the naming, and the dog was yipping and frolicking around Harry, who was laughing in delight.

"Wolfgang it is," John said with a smile. "Now we just have to get Mrs. Hudson to -"

He was cut off by a breathless screech from the door. Turning, he saw Mrs. Hudson herself, bearing a now shaking tray of sandwiches, staring with wide eyes at the massive dog capering about her upstairs flat. He groaned inwardly, adding up all the factors going on in his mind. Sherlock wanted Harry to stay here. Harry was a most-likely abused boy, who found comfort in the dog. Mrs. Hudson seemed shocked by the dog. He wasn't sure what Mrs. Hudson's pet policy was. Mrs. Hudson had sandwiches. Harry was probably hungry. John was _definitely_ hungry. Sherlock would be absolutely no help. John was tired.

The variables swirled in his mind as he turned to Mrs. Hudson with a winning smile.

"Why, Mrs. Hudson, you've outdone yourself! Those look divine!" he divested her of the tray and steered her towards an armchair. Distraction, he thought. Let's get her to ignore the elephant in the room. Or at least, the dog. The very large dog.

"Have you met Harry?" he asked, gesturing the the now apprehensive boy. "He turned up last night all cold and hurt, and Sherlock took him in, can you believe it? Not that he shouldn't," he said quickly, glancing at Harry who looked instantly apologetic, "but really, Sherlock being decent? What a remarkable boy to draw that out, no?"

Mrs. Hudson looked very dazed, but, ever the impeccable hostess and mother-her, she proffered a sandwich to Harry and insisted he eat – he was 'skin and bones, _what_ were you doing to him, Sherlock?'

Sherlock protested that he had only just met the child last night, and could not in any way be held accountable for his present state of malnourishment, indeed, he had provided the boy with biscuits! _His_ biscuits! At this point, the dog, newly named Wolfgang began nosing at the sandwich tray, and Harry absent-mindedly fed him half of the sandwich he held.

Mrs. Hudson's gaze focused back on the dog, and John and Sherlock stopped talking as she opened her mouth to speak. They were absolutely awed when she declared,

"Oh, there's the dear doggie I fed yesterday. Such a handsome boy you are! I had so hoped someone would take him in, but it turns out he belongs to Harry! What a marvellous thing, dearie – we'll have to get you a nice steak to celebrate. Stay as long as you like, dearie, I've another room if these boys won't share. We must get the both of you fed – you're bags of bones with black hair!" With that speech, she bustled out of the room, muttering about adorable strays and proper meals.

Sherlock grinned at John. "It would seem that the pet policy covers taking in strays," he remarked.

John nodded, "Well, we've picked up two, we might as well get them cleaned up. Questions and that can wait, but they both look a mess. Which one do you want?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "I abhor the smell of wet dog. I will not bathe it, and it needs a bath in the most desperate way possible. No, you shall be responsible for grooming Amadeus, and I shall take charge of Harry," he declared.

John nodded. "Right," he said "just try not to overwhelm him. Get him cleaned up, and fed, and I'll patch him up after I'm done with – wait, what did you call Wolfgang?"

Sherlock sniffed, "Harry decided to name him after the composer Mozart – I was simply calling him by the second name, Amadeus. It's a bit more to my liking than _Wolf_."

"Aren't you going to confuse the dog?" John asked with a quirked eyebrow. He and Sherlock were making their way to the bathroom to run a bath and fetch towels and the like, while Harry and Wolfgang feasted on the spoils of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

Sherlock frowned, before shaking his head. "I think that there is very little that confused that dog. It seems as though it reacts to what we are saying, not just our projected emotions, as most dogs do. I would like to know where the animal was trained; I've never heard of such an advanced program."

John smiled, "Well, before you go off hunting dog breeders, get Harry cleaned up and into a change of clothes. If you get him settled down, maybe he'll have a nap and I can look him over. You know enough first-aid that you should be able to take care of the smaller stuff." He glared mildly at Sherlock. He really should have taken care of it when Harry _arrived_ but now another few minutes wouldn't make much difference. Sherlock just swept by with a towel, intent on taking Harry to Mrs. Hudson's to wash, so John turned and called out the bathroom door, "Wolfgang!" before turning back to the slowly-filling tub.

A soft thudding noise and a playful yip were all the warning he had before he was deluged with warm water, which had just been displaced by a large, dirty, and now very wet, dog.

* * *

><p>Ok, so that was just a bit of 'getting to know you' fluff. I'm sorry if the characterizations are a bit off - I go away from the story for a few weeks, and I need to find the characters again! That's why I didn't tackle the questions this chapter, I hope you forgive me, and I thought this would add a bit of levity to the tension building up.<p>

Mycroft and answers await my friends, please be patient as you have been these past few weeks. Please review or comment with any questions or concerns you have. Every comment can be taken to make the story more, but if you don't say anything, I can't better my writing!

I'm done with most of my classes now, so chapters should be coming at a quicker pace. Thank you for being patient, and again, please review! Liked it, hated it, I want to know! :)


	9. Chapter 9

Holy Jeez this chapter was long! I realize it gets pretty rambly, but I just couldn't stop writing once I got a mind-set going. Weird. Well, we get back to Harry and Sirius, and see what they're thinking. We also have Harry meet someone new! For him, at least. I'm sure you're familiar with the guy, as some of you have been begging for him most unashamedly. Patience, people.

General disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter, or derivatives of Conan Doyle's work.

Warnings: Mentions of abuse/attempted rape - nothing you haven't read up to this point. Some bashing of people who probably deserve it. Canadian English and English English spelling of certain words - deal with it, stupid spellcheck (inarticulate grumbling)

Again, thank you for the reviews! I really love you for them! And thanks for waiting so long for the chapter update; I know I'm not terribly consistent. Don't hate me, I really couldn't live with myself and all that crap. Jokes, for those who are not conversant with the art of sarcasm.

But enough of that, on with the story! Spot Sherlock being an all-knowing prat, and Sirius being uncommonly lucid!

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><p>Ch 9<p>

Harry was confused. He was an emotional mess. He was relieved over leaving the Dursleys, angry because of his reason for leaving, scared and in shock due to his encounter in the alley, and oddly enough, happy. He was warm, and clean, and filled to bursting with the most delicious sandwiches in this world or the magical. All of these feelings combined to make a positive morass that was near impossible for the near-teenager to navigate, but any concern he might have felt was countered by the truly amazing thing; Harry felt _safe_.

It was a very odd feeling for Harry, and he felt almost guilty for what had always been an indulgence for him. He had never been safe at the Dursley's unless he was in his cupboard, and even then, the lock was on the outside of the door so hostile relatives could still intrude. While Hogwarts was an amazing escape, the school of magic had proved to be extremely hazardous during his two years of schooling. He had made friends, and was able to get away from his relatives, but he felt far from secure there.

At both his relatives and at Hogwarts, Harry struggled continuously with a projected image of himself. At the Dursley's, he was a freak, a burden – unwanted. Whereas at Hogwarts, he was either the best thing since the bread-slicing spell, or the Dark Lord's snake-speaking heir. Always he was labeled, and never were those labels accurate. It was extremely frustrating.

Here, however, with Mr. Sherlock and Dr. John, he seemed to be cared for. Mr. Sherlock had taken him in off the street with no clue as to who he was; just knowing that he was a child in need of help. He had absolutely nothing to gain from the act of kindness. Harry was baffled. Someone _always_ wanted something from him, so was understandably confused with the somewhat quirky man. His flatmate, Dr. John, however, was truly amazing. He didn't even know Harry, and he seemed ready to defend him against anything from 'abusive idiots' (how in the world did Sherlock _know_?) to his somewhat maniacal flatmate. Harry had never seen such concern, just for _him_ as a _person_ from an adult. Madame Pomphrey – well, he figured that it was her job to fix him up, and Dumbledore had never inquired especially as to how Harry was doing emotionally or anything. It was a distant sort of interest. Mrs. Weasley obviously loved mothering, but honestly, the twins had let slip about the bars and stuff even though Harry was dying of shame about it, and she didn't even bat an eye!

But John and Sherlock had figured out within five minutes of meeting him that he needed help. Harry wasn't used to asking for help, and to see it freely given like this was an extraordinary feeling that made his chest tight and left him with the confusion that he was struggling with.

He snuggled down on the couch, clean and dressed in an overlarge sweater and shorts. Sherlock had taken one glance at the clothes Harry had tried to change into after a glorious shower and had started muttering to himself. He seemed to do that a lot, but none of it sounded particularly malicious, so Harry wasn't too concerned. He was rather awed, in fact, when Mr. Sherlock dragged him into a room and started rifling through the drawers and closet, muttering about 'rags handed down from a obese pig of a boy'. When Harry had stared at him in goggle-eyed amazement – how had he known about Dudley? Perhaps Sherlock was a wizard after all... Sherlock had rolled his eyes and explained in crisp tones.

"The clothes you possess are obviously not yours. You seem to take particular care of your possessions, and those clothes are of standard quality, but obviously under appreciated. Also, they are absolutely massive on you – I find it hard to believe you would go out of your way to purchase something so outrageously impractical. Thus, the clothes clearly belonged to another child, probably in close relation to you, who is alarmingly and unhealthily obese and sloppy," Sherlock completed his deduction by shoving some clothes into Harry's chest. "These will also be too large for you, but they have the benefit of being actually comfortable and not worn to translucence."

He then swept out of the room, and glancing around it, Harry realized that this bedroom wasn't Sherlock's, it was John's! How he knew this, he couldn't exactly say, but the room was warmer and more tidy – the bed made with a crispness and a medical kit and papers placed just so near the desk. Sherlock had raided John's closet for clothes for him to wear! Harry pondered the peculiar relationship as Wolfgang snuffled up to his leg.

Wolfgang. There was another reason to be happy, and another reason he felt so safe. The large dog had saved him from that _man_ and had led him to Mr. Sherlock and Dr. John. And he was such a nice dog – nothing like Ripper; really he was just a playful, extremely over-sized puppy. He was so glad that it was accepted without question that Wolf would stay with him; he felt so secure with the black dog, and was somehow certain that the dog would protect him from anything, no matter what.

He grinned happily and patted Wolf on the head; apparently it had been the monumental battle of the century in the bathroom. Dr. John had apparently been in a _war_ and he said that the struggle in bathing 'that beastly mutt' was at least comparable to being caught in an explosion.

Dr. John had related his tale from a slumped position in an armchair as Sherlock snorted and scoffed and Wolf wriggled in Harry's lap. Well, he mostly wriggled on the couch, with a fraction of the dog in Harry's actual _lap_, but seeing as Harry was so small and Wolf so massive, this was entirely understandable.

Finally, Dr. John sat up and gave Harry a calculated look.

"Well, Harry," Dr. John began, "why don't we see what we're dealing with so we can fix you up?"

Harry immediately went on the defensive, even though he knew he should probably get checked out. It didn't hurt too much anymore; he suspected that his magic had set to healing him, but Uncle Vernon had been kicking _hard_ and he was still a little sore. Reluctantly, he nodded, and Wolf whimpered and then licked his cheek in encouragement.

Harry sighed and nodded to Dr. John. Even though he had only known the men for a few hours, he trusted them. They hadn't taken him to the police, or indicated he should go back to the Durlseys, so he was prepared to subject himself to an inspection. He couldn't tell them a lot of things, obviously, as they were muggles, but that was all to the good. If a wizard had found out about the boy-who-lived being injured by his relatives, the whole magical world would know about it by the afternoon at the latest. Harry cringed at the thought.

Dr. John got Harry to take off the sweater, which Harry remembered with a blush was actually Dr. John's in the first place. John hissed as he took in what Sherlock had already seen in the bathroom; Harry looked down and saw that his stomach and ribs were purple with bruises, and by the feel of his back his Uncle had been pretty even in his distribution of kicks. Add that to the discolouration on his arms due to his attempt to protect his similarly bruised face (thankfully, he had succeeded in that endeavour, because Uncle Vernon had not been able to land what would have probably been a nose-breaking, tooth-shattering kick), Harry thought he probably looked like he had taken Polyjuice to look like a human-shaped bruise. He paled as he thought how bad off he would be if his magic didn't help him out – he knew that he had been healing at a faster-than-normal rate, but if his body was any indication, he should have been in critical condition at a hospital! He leaned back and let Dr. John do his work.

O_o

Sirius fought very hard to suppress a growl as Harry's shirt came off. The good humour he had built up after being fed those delicious sandwiches and teasing the muggle in the bath was abruptly torn away. He had thought he couldn't feel any greater rage than at that _disgusting_ muggle that had tried to – to _assault_ his Harry, but this was another indication of where he had failed as a Godfather.

Because he knew how long that muggle had been in the alley, and he had certainly not had time to get Harry into this state. The boy was positively black and blue, and Sirius was almost certain he knew who to blame. Harry had obviously been running away, and now Sirius knew why. Those bastards that Dumbledore had left him with were abusive.

Sirius whined, as the doctor – John's? - face set, and the taller man, Sherlock's expression grew grim. It didn't change much, but there was a tightening about the pale blue eyes...

Sirius curled up at Harry's feet as John started his gentle prodding, and reflected on how much he had failed the godson he had sworn to protect. Guilt swept over him as he thought of James, of Lily and how much they had treasured Harry. He should have grown up loved and spoiled within an inch of his life. Instead, he was sent to live with muggles that ensured he was a skinny and injured waif on their first meeting after twelve years. Gone was the joyful, bright-eyed baby that Sirius had played with in the cottage at Godric's Hollow. Instead, there was a young boy with too-thin wrists and blackened rings circling deep green eyes that had seen far, far too much. The boy gave off a sense of forced maturity and self-reliance that tore at Sirius's currently canine heart. He wondered if Harry had ever even been a child, and sunk into a pit of misery and self-recrimination. This was horrible – he had escaped Azkaban, but it seemed he could never escape the horrible thoughts that had plagued him since that fateful Hallowe'en.

He was jolted out of his dark thoughts by a sigh from John.

"Well," the doctor began, "the good news is that nothing is broken. You have severe bruising on your torso, but I don't think that your ribs are fractured, and neither are your arms. You're going to be sore for a few days, but there is no internal bleeding, either." John smiled tiredly, and ruffled Harry's perpetually messy hair. Sirius gave a doggy-grin and he thought of how familiar that hair was. He wagged his tail at John's relatively positive declaration, and leapt onto the couch, nuzzling carefully into Harry's side. Harry scratched his head, causing the animagus to close his eyes in canine bliss, before they were jerked open by an abrupt question from Sherlock.

"How did you come to be injured, Harry?" inquired the consulting detective, staring at Harry with a far too knowing gaze.

Sirius wasn't fooled by the question; he had seen how sharp this man was. He had immediately picked up on just how and why Harry was injured, and seemed to have an almost magical way of finding details that had escaped Sirius, even with his heightened canine senses. How did he know Harry was from Surrey? How had he been so quick to find out about his owl? What else would he be able to find out? He didn't seem to be magical, and he didn't know who Harry was, so Sirius would have to help Harry protect his identity as a wizard. He had already begun to do so by barring him access to Harry's trunk; until Sirius knew if Harry had protective charms on it, Sherlock could not be allowed to see its contents. He turned his steely grey gaze to the dark-haired man, ready to provide a distraction if Harry was at all unable to answer his questions.

He felt his godson stiffen next to him. Sirius knew that Harry was weighing his options – he had also been extremely careful when answering questions about his home life to his friends. He only hoped that Harry would be brave enough to explain to these men – they seemed to want nothing more than to help Harry, and it would probably be a good thing for him to talk about what had happened.

Harry began in a hesitant voice, "Well, I got in a fight ... and was kicked a bit."

Sirius almost snorted. Such a vague admission, with no reference to who was responsible, but obviously telling the truth. Just not the whole truth. He had answered the question, but his lack of definite detail almost screamed evasion. His godson seemed to be quite adept at prevaricating.

"Perhaps I should rephrase my question," Sherlock said, looking at Harry firmly. "Or even better, I will not ask questions, and will instead tell you what I have deduced, and you shall confirm it and elaborate," he said, and Sirius reflected that this was probably the best way to go. Getting answers out of abused children was like harvesting Snarlaguff pods – an almighty battle for each closely-protected answer.

He heard Harry sigh in agreement. He was clearly uncomfortable with speaking about his situation, but was alright with simple yes or no clarifications. That was good, and Sirius was thankful that he and Harry had found such understanding muggles.

Sherlock began his deduction, leaving both Sirius and Harry shocked and awed. The former wondered if the muggle possibly had Seer blood or knew Legilimency, and the latter was again wondering if Sherlock wasn't some kind of wizard.

"You have grown up in a mostly neglectful home," Sherlock stated. "You have been underfed and overworked, and clothed in castoffs and hand-me-downs. You have received little to no parental affection, and are unfamiliar with such things as praise or genuine concern."

Harry was open-mouthed in wonderment, and Sirius was growing distressed as Harry's past was laid out before them. John had simply shaken his head and sat back to let Sherlock get through his deductions.

"You have not been physically abused until very recently, where I assume something set your accustomed... caregivers ... over the edge, resulting in the male, a large man, slightly overweight, visiting violence upon your person in the form of a blow to the face, then multiple kicks after you presumably fell to the floor." Sherlock rattled on, seemingly oblivious to the growing tension that Sirius was experiencing, or the way Harry was shrinking in on himself.

"You made a hasty departure, fleeing with your possessions that are presumably in the trunk you brought with you, and you took a cab from Surrey to London, so you most likely secured funds of some sort. You ended up in an alley not far from here, where you were accosted briefly, then came here."

Harry's eyes had grown wide with alarm at the mention of the alley, and he had begun shaking in earnest. John sent Sherlock a reproving glare, and Sirius began licking Harry's hands, trying to exude comfort and protection. He felt Harry's thin fingers twist into his now clean fur, the grip tightening in an attempt to control the shaking.

He heard Harry clear his throat, then start speaking in a low voice.

"It's not usually so bad. I don't know how you know all that, but yeah, they never cared about me. They've always said I'm a burden and a freak," Sirius growled, and John was looking slightly sick at the admission of Sherlock's correct deduction. He had obviously hoped that Sherlock had been wrong for once.

Harry continued, now speaking in a monotone. Sirius wanted him to stop, wanted to shield him from the pain that made his voice hoarse and raspy, but he knew he needed to get this out, and Sirius also needed to hear it.

"I thought it was normal when I was a kid, I tried to be grateful and helpful," Harry continued. "But nothing I did changed anything. They hated me, and told me my parents hated me and left me alone because they were drunks that threw away their lives in a car crash. That my mother was a slut that got married because my father got her pregnant with me, and I was unwanted..." Harry trailed off as Sirius started growling in earnest, snapping and snarling, wishing desperately that he could get at the Dursley's. That Lily and James' memories had been desecrated in this manner was absolutely unforgivable. That Harry had believed this of his parents was a travesty.

He reigned in his temper, because both Sherlock and John were sending him alarmed looks, Sherlock's considering, obviously trying to figure him out. He would have to be more discrete, he couldn't let Sherlock in on the fact that he was more than a dog. He settle back into Harry's lap with a huff, allowing the boy to start petting him in a cathartic rhythm.

"I learned different when I went to my school. It's a boarding school, and people there knew my parents. They weren't drunks, they were murdered ..." Sherlock's gaze grew even more sharp at that admission, and Sirius and John had the simultaneous thought that he would be revisiting that tidbit of information in the near future.

"So this summer, when they started saying those things about mum and dad ... I just couldn't let them. They had no right to speak about them like that, and I got so angry..." Harry trailed off, his eyes far away. "My uncle didn't like my attitude, and I was ... very rude to his sister," Sirius suspected that the rudeness had something to do with magic, which was understandable considering the emotional state Harry must have been in.

"He was fed up, tired of it all, and so angry with me. So he hit me, and it was like he just couldn't stop. My Aunt – she never liked me either, but she distracted him and told me to get out of the house. I got my stuff and nicked some money and got a cab to London. I thought hotels would be more likely to take in kids here than in Surrey."

Harry was silent for a time while Sherlock nodded at this confirmation and John got up to sit on Harry's other side. He wordlessly put his arm around Harry's shoulders, and the boy looked so gratified at the comfort offered that Sirius was prepared to start a shrine to the saint that was Dr. John Watson. Anyone that could make his Harry happy was automatically a wonderful person.

After a few minutes, Sherlock prompted Harry to speak again.

"The alley?" he asked, and Harry slouched into the couch, his fingers tightening in Sirius's fur. John gripped his shoulder more firmly, and Harry took a tremulous breath.

"I didn't know where to go," Harry whispered. "I thought I could go to a pub I know about, but I figured I'd be in trouble and that's the first place they'd look for me." Sirius was probably the only one that picked up on the nuances of that statement. He guessed that Harry had done some semi-serious magic, gotten punished, then done a runner. He would be fleeing both his relatives, and the Ministry, who would undoubtedly send him back to his relatives. Sirius had no illusions about the Ministry – if they could send him to life in prison without a trial, then they wouldn't have the initiative to check up on an orphan's home situation. Any competent agency would have had Harry out of there in under a year.

He realized that Harry had initially wanted to go to the Leaky Cauldron, but much like Sirius, he had realized that the entrance to Wizarding London was far too obvious a place to be found at. Disappearing into the muggle world would open up endless hideaways for an adult, however Harry was still a child, and the muggle police were a bit more conscientious than their magical counterparts. They would have sent Harry back to his relatives, or into institutionalized care, considering his injuries. He abandoned the speculations on Harry and the muggle authorities when his godson continued his monologue.

"I was in the alley," Harry's voice was hoarse, his eyes distant, "and then – there was a man – I couldn't get away, and there were _hands _-"

Sirius' eyes closed as he remembered the terror of realization, the fear that he was too late, the blind fury that anyone would _think_ to lay their slimy hands on _his_ pup. He was so thankful – he honestly felt that all those years in Azkaban were worth it because they had allowed him to stop his godson from being brutally raped. His thoughts swirled darkly as he reflected that Harry wouldn't even be in that situation if he had been given a fair trial, if he hadn't been so _stupid..._

O_o

Sherlock and John were tense, and their eyes met in silent accord over the horror the boy was describing. John knew that Sherlock may seem like a heartless bastard, but he honestly cared, and would probably hunt down the pigs that put Harry in this state. His examination of the boy hadn't revealed any indications of rape, so he assumed that physically, the boy was fine. The mental scars from such an advance, however, would probably linger in the young boy's psyche for some time.

John watched as Harry's eyes grew more focused, and he looked down on the dog whose head was probably cutting off the circulation to his legs. Harry said, his voice stronger now, "Wolf saved me. He got him away, and made him pass out. He didn't kill him!" he said suddenly, his voice growing panicked, "he's not dangerous, I swear! He was helping me!"

John smiled at the innocent desperation in Harry's expression, and was quick to reassure the boy.

"Wolfgang's a hero, Harry, don't worry. I'm sorry you went through what you did, but I'm so glad you're alright now." He grinned at the boy, and was rewarded with a hesitant smile from Harry, a small nod from Sherlock, and a crazy, tongue-lolling grin from Wolfgang.

The group sat in silence for a time, none knowing how to dispel the heavy atmosphere the telling had created.

John saw the dog's head shoot up suddenly, looking over to the door, and Sherlock cocked his ear before assuming a slightly resigned expression.

There was a brief knock, and before anyone could say anything the door swung open to reveal a posh-looking man in a crisp suit who glanced around the room, taking in everything with a casual observance, before fixing onto Sherlock. He swung an umbrella forward and addressed the tip of it, frowning slightly.

"Sherlock, far be it from me to question your life choices, but when you start taking in children off the street I have to ask ..."

John stared at the man. He had never known the cool politician to lose his train of thought before. He was currently staring with a fixed gaze at Harry, and seemed to be doing some very fast thinking.

Sherlock evidently noted the man's abstraction, and smirked. John groaned. If this man knew about Harry, there was evidently something far bigger than an abusive home and attempted rape to deal with, and Sherlock knew it. He could only watch as his flatmate smugly addressed the interloper.

"Why, have you met our guest? He showed up last night, as you are no doubt aware. Tell me, what do you think of our Harry, dear Mycroft?" He grinned smugly as he witnessed one of the few times his brother was rendered speechless.

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><p>Thanks for reading! As always, I implore you to impart your thoughts unto my person. How did I do with Harry? I realize he's a bit OOC, but as this is a crossover, can you expect any different? I just thought I'd make him respectful, but not a doormat... I hope I found a good balance.<p>

I know that Sirius seems a bit _too_ lucid for having just escaped Azkaban, but I'm going with a spur of the moment theory that he comes and goes with his mental stability, and being a dog really helps. Or something. Just go with it, people and thank me for being the kind and benevolent person I am for finally gifting you with the dubious pleasures of Mycroft. God I'm a bit verbose today - I blame it on the term papers.

Anyways, please review and tell me your honest thoughts! Hold no punches! I am fully aware of how awesome and incredible I am, but you can tell me again if you really feel like it ;)


	10. Chapter 10

I suppose at this point in time, I should be slamming on my caps lock and begging for your forgiveness while giving numerous excuses as to why I have not updated in months. Well, you'll still get the excuses, but the begging would probably take up even more space in what is probably going to be a very rambly intro bit. Yes, for those of you who saw the chapter update and thought, "ZOMG LONG CHAPTER YUSSSS" as I'm sure many of you did, you will find that a lot of the characters will go into this vent-spree. So feel free to scroll down, I promise I won't hold it against you.

One of the main reasons this chapter took so long, was my own cowardice. I would have stretches of free time, where I would sit down and think 'hey, how about I write that chapter now!' - but then I'd start thinking about what the chapter would entail and I'd get scared shitless of doing it wrong. Think about it; a dialogue between Sherlock and Mycroft, skirting the issue of _magic_. How the hell would you go about that? I realize I over-thought this, but seriously. You have the combative dynamic between Sherlock and Mycroft, Mycroft's secretive governmentness, Harry's secretive Wizardingness, Sherlock's intrusive curiosity, and everyone trying to second-guess each other. Add in trying to think like a thirteen-year-old and a conniving politician at the same time...Ugh. Headaches. Several of them. And then there was the manner of speech itself to consider. Trying to write a believable Mycroft is infuriating! I love him, but as far as writing goes, I wish he'd just die. He's so difficult all the time! I'd get a few lines down, then think that there was no _way_ Mycroft would _ever _say that. It's one of my biggest OCD pet peeves. Don't you hate it when you read a fic and and the characters don't speak like they should? I mean, I don't mind OOCness, but there is a line. Fics where an eleven-year-old Harry is spouting ideals and speeches with a vocabulary that would rival a Literature Major (not that I'm pointing fingers at the degree – take one guess as to what some of my classes were) or where characters such as Professors McGonagall and Snape say things like 'what's up' absolutely infuriate me. McGonagall would say "Mr. Potter, are you quite well?" as opposed to "Harry, are you OK?". So yeah, evidence to me overthinking things, and hence the pit I dug myself when writing Mycroft.

There was a bunch of other things as well... school, work, family stuff that was mildly depressing, as well as a generous coating of apathy. But we got here in the end. Just don't hold your breath on a fast updating story – it comes and goes in waves :)

General Disclaimers: I am not secretly JK Rowling, nor am I Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, despite your suspicions. I own nothing whatsoever to do with the characters that I am forcing to dance to my whims.

Warnings: Over-thought dialogue, Holmes brothers that I'm not quite satisfied with, and probably some plot holes that you will have to suspend critical thinking for and just go along with.

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><p>Ch 10<p>

Sirius stared at the newcomer, tense and wary. The look he was giving Harry was far too calculating, far too _knowing_, and that put Sirius on his guard. But he wondered how much this muggle – for he had absolutely no scent of magic about him – knew about Harry. Did the muggle government know something about him? Did they know about the Dursleys? The thought made him snarl; if the muggles had had a hand in Harry's placement with Lily's sister, he just may have to fulfill the muggle portion of his sentence, after he had found the rat, of course.

He shifted so that he was as close as possible to Harry, but still able to spring into action if necessary. The man spoke, addressing Harry with his unwavering, cool gaze.

"Tell me, Harry, how long have you had that _distinctive_ scar?"

Both Sirius and Harry's eyes widened in alarm – did this man _know_? How? He was a muggle – there was no way he should know about the wizarding world – and if he did, someone was in a load of trouble.

Harry was obviously very tense, and he cautiously questioned the man in return.

"I'm sorry, but who are you, sir? And why are you interested?" he asked in a soft voice.

Sherlock's eyes gleamed, obviously pleased with Harry's line of questioning, even if it was a bit blunt.

The man blinked, before pasting a thin-lipped smile onto his face.

"Forgive me, I was evidently a bit forward. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I am interested because my somewhat reckless little brother has been known to get caught up in rather classified situations, and I fear that this may be one of those times," the man, now identified as Sherlock's older brother, informed Harry, and by extension Sirius, in clipped tones.

Sherlock grinned at that, almost squirming in anticipation.

"How is it that you know Harry? We only just met him last night, and we haven't even been told his last name! Now, dearest brother, can you possibly elucidate the situation for us? It is quite interesting." He finished speaking with a leer. Dear Merlin the man was practically salivating over the tense atmosphere – any second now, someone was going to give and the rush of information would be positively heady to the walking brain that was Sherlock.

Mycroft gave his younger brother a considering look. His gaze shifted to Harry, and Sirius, bound in canine silence, felt an impending change approaching. Mycroft _knew_ something – what, he wasn't sure, but it would most certainly affect Harry in some way or another.

"Mr. Potter," Mycroft said suddenly, addressing Harry in a direct and calculating manner. Harry started, as did Sirius, and Sherlock and John looked taken aback before they realized that Mycroft was still speaking to Harry. Harry, who as yet had not revealed his surname to anyone in the flat.

This is it, Sirius thought, Mycroft knows about Harry Potter. A muggle knows. Who the hell is this guy?

"Mr. Potter, I have several questions for you, but before I ask, I must know how long you will be remaining in the _care_ of my erstwhile brother. I'm sure you do not wish for your _circumstances_ to be revealed to uninvolved civilians, although..." he trailed off, his face adopting a mild look of contempt, "I'm sure the knowledge could be, ah, reclassified by certain mutual acquaintances of ours."

Sirius glanced at Harry, who looked shocked, and mildly confused – most probably at some of the vocabulary Mycroft Holmes was employing. Honestly, he was talking to someone who was not even thirteen! However, he was sure Harry understood one thing; Mycroft Holmes knew about Harry, and by extension, the wizarding world.

Sherlock looked extremely indignant at the prospect of being left out of this new case, but before he could start ranting, John addressed both Harry and Mycroft.

"Harry can stay with us as long as he needs. We're well equipped to deal with whatever is going on discretely, and probably with less observation that a government official would receive," he claimed, with a pointed glance towards Mycroft.

The man fixed his cuffs as he thought, evidently weighing pros and cons in his mind. As far as Sirius knew, the muggle government had no real knowledge of magic. The Prime Minister and the Monarch were aware of it, so he supposed that this man was a very important government official, or married to a witch, or something. His speculation ended as Mycroft apparently reached a decision.

"As long as we are permitted to, we will have Harry Potter in your care, gentlemen. I believe that that is the most viable option available at this time," Mycroft stated, sniffing at some perceived annoyance.

John blinked, and even Sherlock looked mildly taken aback.

"Just like that?" John asked. "No questions, no manipulations, no threats to one's livelihood? Mycroft, are you feeling quite well?"

"I assure you, Dr. Watson, I have thought this course of action through quite thoroughly," Mycroft said condescendingly.

There was a skeptical silence where Sherlock's eyes glittered while Harry's clouded with apprehension before John burst out, "But we're not even in an abandoned warehouse! This feels so – so – _wrong_!"

Sirius couldn't help but stare at the group. He was pretty sure that abandoned warehouses were not the typical place one decided child placement, unless it involved hostages and other things he'd rather not think about. Just who were these muggles? His speculations were interrupted by Mycroft addressing Harry.

"Mr. Potter, may I assume that you do not wish to return to your, ah, place of residence?" he inquired.

Harry blinked, and shrugged warily.

"It's not that I really _want_ to, sir, it's just, I think I sort of _have_ to be there, at least in the summer," he explained confusedly.

Mycroft scoffed lightly, while John and Sherlock looked irritated.

"Mr. Potter, allow me to clarify some items of interest. When your parents died, there was a minor time of bureaucratic shuffling, as we were dealing with a tragic gas leak that occurred the day after their deaths. Thus it was that when the governmental agency concerned with the welfare of an orphan such as yourself went to assess your situation on the first of November, they discovered that you were nowhere to be found. Any searches made into your affairs resulted in vague details such as 'witness protection' and 'parents' wishes'. However, not one branch of _our_ British Ministry knew your location. Any who inquired were assured that you were safe in Britain, but a Harry Potter was nowhere to be found," he paused as Harry began to look extremely confused.

"Sir," he began hesitantly, "are you sure your search systems are alright? I grew up in Surrey, I went to school and everything! And I lived with -" he broke off, looking at the adults fearfully. "I lived with my... guardians."

Mycroft did not look confused; he appeared as though some suspicion of his had been confirmed, and was radiating a quiet smugness.

"Surrey? I see Sherlock's little deductions were correct, were they not? As ever. Incidentally, Harry, it is impossible for you to have been with your legal guardian, as it appears he has been incarcerated for the past twelve years."

Padfoot's whine was drowned out by Harry's articulate "Wha?"

Sherlock's gaze narrowed, and he crisply asked, "has been? Mycroft, if the man has been released I don't see why this guardianship is in any question. Harry should, by law, be with his legal guardian, correct?" His chin lifted, almost daring Mycroft to impart more information.

This Mycroft did, blandly stating, "he has recently broken out of a high security penitentiary. It was claimed that he murdered several citizens in circumstances connected with the Potters' deaths."

While Harry reeled with shock that the one person he might actually _belong_ to may be even worse than the Dursleys, Sherlock lunged after the tantalizing bait Mycroft had strung in front of him. He was beginning to be very glad that he had opened the door for Harry – life was so _interesting_ at the moment.

"You seem unsure as to his crimes, Mycroft. What has the man done? And where has he escaped from?" the younger brother demanded of the older.

A line drew itself between Mycroft's eyebrows, and he glanced again at Harry before addressing Sherlock's question.

"The man, one Sirius Black, was held in a highly confidential facility. As to his crimes, I have been unable to unearth transcripts of a trial, and so I cannot say with certainty what exactly it is that he has done. I have been assured that he is quite mad, highly dangerous. However, due to several ... circumstances, information regarding him is extremely classified, and there is no knowledge on his likely escape routes or long-term goals. It has been suggested," and here Mycrof looked significantly at Harry, "that he will be searching for the last of the family he was supposedly incarcerated for betraying."

Harry's breath caught, and Padfoot whined. It hurt, even without the details. How, Sirius wailed internally, could anyone believe that he would give up Lily and James? And little Harry? Razor blades tore into his heart as he saw the scared and closed-off expression on Harry's face, knowing that it was his fault that it was there.

00ooo000ooo000

The new man unsettled Harry. He seemed to _know_ far too much. He wasn't a wizard; of that he was fairly sure. So what did it mean? How many muggles knew about him? About wizards? Wasn't there that International Statute of Secrecy or something? His thoughts whirled in his head, as Sherlock's voice cut across the room.

"Mycroft, are you suggesting that there is something kept classified from yourself? Is that even possible?" Sherlock's voice was pitched differently; it had taken on a tone of confusion and incredulity that it was unaccustomed to.

Mycroft ignored his brother, and looked to Harry.

"Well Mr. Potter? I'm sure you have, ah, alternative avenues, but if you wish to remain here, I assure you partial disclosure will not ... get you into 'trouble', as it were. Other locales you might search out could be said to be ... predictable?" Mycroft said delicately.

Harry thought about it. If he did have a deranged murderer after him, who was a wizard, then perhaps he should stay clear of the magical world until he was under the protection of Hogwarts. Diagon Alley was not the most secure place, and it was well-known that he was friends with the Weasleys. He would hate to endanger them.

However these muggles seemed capable, and they were buried in the heart of London. What wizard – fresh out the mysterious wizard prison that Hagrid had so feared – would be able to track down a young boy in the heart of London?

Wistfulness answered for a great deal of Harry's rhetorical inquiry, and he found that he wanted to stay here, with the kind doctor, and the abrubt Sherlock, and his wonderful new dog, Wolfgang. Besides, he was still sure that he was in some sort of trouble over his accidental magic. How ironic; the escaped convict hunting down the one yet-to-be apprehended.

Harry drew in a quivering sigh, and gazed up at the men surrounding him. They did not frighten him, like his Uncle, or Professor Snape, or _that man_. He gave a tentative smile, and asked in a small voice,

"Would you mind it very much if I stayed?"

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><p>There you go! I know the chapter itself is a bit shorter than usual, but yeah...<p>

Thank you so much for your continued support and reviews! I'll try not to leave you hanging for so long again - I know it's terribly annoying. If I could get some feedback, it would give me some ideas on how to spin the family situation, leading into the big reveal, so anything you have to say would be awesome.

Thanks for hanging in there!


	11. Chapter 11

Hello! Sorry for the delay, got a bit out of my muse, or whatever the excuse is right now. Due to my distraction, I got out a few chapters for some other fics, but I've been steadily plugging away at this one, so I hope you enjoy the read! It's a bit rushed, but I got on a roll, so please forgive any spelling errors because I have to go to work soon but I wanted to update this ASAP for you!

General Disclaimers and Warnings, see previous chapters.

Thanks for all the reviews by the way! They were very encouraging when I was uninspired of stuck for ideas! You guys rock!

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><p>Sherlock stared at the imploring green eyes. They were quite the anomaly. Eyes shouldn't be that <em>large<em> or quite so very _green_, and how on earth did the boy get them to shimmer with what looked like hope? It did not make sense at all. Nor did it make him want to scoop up the boy and protect him from all his hurts and fears... no, that was most certainly what John was in danger of doing. He was practically twitching to do so.

No there was a perfectly logical reason for all of this unwarranted protectiveness going about the room. Even the bloody dog was influenced! Humans are drawn to 'baby proportions' – in that certain features, among them large eyes, endear themselves to the human psyche, and instill a sense of protectiveness. This ensures the defence of the weaker humans, promoting a nurturing environment until they grow into adulthood.

So it was the large eyes that were nagging at Sherlock to agree to the bother of having a child underfoot for goodness-knew-how-long. Then again, there was another draw; they boy was quite the mystery, and having him around would allow Sherlock to back off the questioning and just _observe_ for the duration. Once the boy was comfortable, he would be able to glean so much more information through behaviour and slips then through interrogative techniques.

He would even put up with the dog, if only to see what exactly it was trained in. He couldn't imagine anyone teaching a dog how to hold a staring contest...

He nodded slightly to John, who positively beamed at him. He addressed Mycroft while gazing at the small boy who had turned up at their doorstep,

"I'm certain you can process our custody of _Harry_ with the proper amount of discretion?"

Mycroft looked almost offended.

"You wound me, dear brother. Mr. Potter, I will ensure that the proper channels are seen to. These men will be your temporary guardians, so I believe that falls under family laws. You may tell them what you will. Good day, Dr. Watson, Mr. Potter. Sherlock." And with that he clutched his umbrella, turned on his heel, and left the flat.

Sherlock turned to look at his new charge, and almost had to flinch back. They boy's eyes were _sparkling_ now. The human eye should not be able to do that! Sherlock could attest to this, having made a detailed study on several different specimens that may or may not have originated in St. Bart's. He gave a long sigh, and addressed his flatmate.

"I suppose he will be needing certain things, no? I'm afraid I find inventory and _shopping_ terribly dull, so I'll leave you to it. I have something that needs looking into." He began pulling on his overcoat, and reached for his favourite scarf.

John was looking rather taken aback, and Harry puzzled.

"But you don't have any cases! At least stay for a bit, we can talk to Harry!" he exclaimed in exasperation.

"Nope, terribly urgent, new stuff, got to run. Laters!" tying his scarf with a flourish, Sherlock followed his brothers footsteps out of 221 B.

0ooo00ooo00

John stared at the doorway through which the two Holmes brothers had disappeared. Slowly, he turned his gaze back to the boy who was now his responsibility. Technically, he was John _and_ Sherlock's responsibility, but no one would ever leave Sherlock in charge of a child, so John knew that he would have to be the greater authority here. He had no clue how to go about this – being a veteran war doctor did not a parent make. He was comforted by the thought that it made a better parent than a self-proclaimed consulting detective.

He could do this. Structure, accountability, and trust; all army ideals, all things that the boy could use. If his suspicions about the boys upbringing were correct, these things were long overdue in his life. They would establish a few guidelines, then play it by ear, he supposed.

Harry was looking quietly pleased, if a little nervous. He was petting the dog, Wolfgang, calmly enough, so John was reassured that he wouldn't have a hysterical teenager on his hands.

"Well," he said, sitting down in his chair, "looks like you'll be staying with us for a while! We should probably get you settled, right? Here, Sherlock has this office room that he never _really _uses – most of the time he sulks in the living room. We can set you up to kip in there." John looked at Harry with a smile, which the boy returned tentatively.

"You're sure this is alright?" Harry asked tentatively. "I mean, it's not going to put you out? I can go somewhere else..." he trailed off uncertainly.

"No! No, not at all. You are more than welcome here. Besides, Mycroft's decided it, hasn't he? Said something about us being substitute family or something?" John said, trying to be as encouraging as possible. Seeing Harry's reassured look, he clapped his hands together. "Right! Well, lets do all that boring 'inventory' Sherlock was mentioning. We'll get your trunk into the office, and see what we need, yeah?" John stood, and made his way over to the trunk.

"Oh, I've got it!" Harry said, flinging himself off of the couch to attach himself to a handle. "I appreciate it, Dr. John, but I can get the trunk, if you'll just show me where...?"

John looked into the boy's green eyes, and saw determination and a certain amount of stubbornness there. He was evidently very adamant about the handling of his trunk. John battled internally for a moment – Harry was injured, and should not be doing heavy lifting, however, he _had_ dragged the trunk with him all the way from Surrey. He decided that the battle over carrying the ungainly luggage wasn't worth the short distance to the office, and nodded briskly before leading his young charge to the next room.

It was very cluttered, but not in a lived-in way. It was full of Sherlock's forgotten experiments and case files, as well as multiple references Sherlock had deemed outdated in favour of the internet. John approached a cabinet and pulled out a drawer, seeing the junk stored in there.

"We'll need to clear the room out, of course, but this should do nicely. We'll get a bed in here, some shelves... Sorry about the mess – Sherlock is, well, Sherlock." John said apologetically to Harry.

Harry was looking about with shining eyes. "It's alright, it's brilliant!" He said. "I don't mind the clutter."

John laughed and went to fetch a garbage bag. "Well I do, so we'll just need to clear this stuff out. Sherlock can sort it later, we'll dump the bag in his room."

Harry looked uncertain. "Are you sure? He won't be mad will he? And you don't need to help – I can manage just fine!"

John gave Harry a considering look. He'd have to be handled carefully, but the boy was most anxious to please, and didn't seem lazy. If anything, he'd have to stop Sherlock from taking advantage of Harry's helpfulness. He put on a disarming smile and simply said, "It's alright, it'll go quickly with two, instead of just you. And you really shouldn't be overexerting yourself, Harry."

Harry blushed, and they got to shoving the mess into bags. Wolfgang surveyed the room, sniffing interestedly at some abandoned projects before splaying himself out in front of the trunk. Like John said, the work went quickly, and soon enough the room was cleared of all but the books and things that John had classified as 'not-completely-useless'.

"Well, then Harry. If you want to get some clothes and stuff unpacked, you can get dressed and we can go see about lunch," John said, looking in approval at the room.

Harry shuffled uncomfortably. "Uh, Dr. John," he started "Mr. Sherlock said that my clothes – that they weren't suitable. I don't have anything but – but stuff like that." He looked down, his cheeks flaming. He actually looked quite adorable, John thought, dressed in the too-big sweater with his messy hair and oversized glasses. It made him look younger than he really was, and John smiled in an indulgent if slightly tired manner.

"Well, we'll just pick some up when we go out, yeah? Nothing to worry about." John said easily. Now that he looked, Harry was wearing some of his old clothes. Sherlock had probably raided his closet. John couldn't find it in him to be annoyed – it made a kind of Sherlock sense, if he thought about it. Harry was small, and John was shorter than Sherlock. Therefor, it would make more sense for Harry to wear John's clothes if his own were unsuitable. Little details like asking permission were deemed by Sherlock to be inconsequential and dull, and John had grown accustomed to just adapting. He looked again at Harry, who was now looking quite uncomfortable.

"Um, Dr. John," Harry said, "I don't have any of my money right now, and I don't know when I can get to my bank, so -" he was cut off by John.

"No worries, Harry, Mycroft has made you our ward – we're supposed to provide for you." When Harry looked about to protest, John quickly said, "if it's any consolation, he'll probably arrange for government compensation, or sort something out with your parents' estate. That's probably what happened with your... relatives." Here Harry blinked in confusion.

"They never got anything for me – I was a burden, I was an expense in food and they could barely put clothes on my back." He said this quickly, in a dull tone that said he had been told it many times. John was angry, and he heard the dog growling in the background.

"Harry, you are anything but a burden," John said. "You are a young man in need of proper guardianship, and said guardians are responsible for providing for you. I'll hear no more of it!" He said with a decisive nod.

Harry still looked unsure, but he nodded as well, and they left the room. John put on a coat and Harry toed on his scuffy trainers, and they made their way to the door. John eyed Wolfgang uncertainly. Harry caught the stare, and asked,

"Oh, can Wolfgang come with us? Please? I'm sure he'll behave!"

Damn his eyes. John felt as though he were in a Disney movie. It was a combination of kicked-puppy and baby-deer and inquiring kitten that totally overwhelmed him. He sighed regretfully.

"Harry, a lot of the places we'll be going won't let dogs in, and we'll be out for a while. We'll leave Wolfgang some water, and we'll get him a proper collar and lead so we can take him out next time, is that alright?"

Harry's face screwed up in a slight pout, before clearing. He looked almost afraid as he petted Wolfgang for reassurance.

"You'll be alright here, Wolf?" He asked the dog. Wolfgang licked his hand, then nudged the boy towards John before turning and jumping up onto the couch. He made himself quite comfortable, the bugger, and John only hoped that he was trained enough not to tear the place apart as soon as they left.

Harry and John left 221 B and made their way out into the street. If Harry seemed to latch onto John, John didn't mention it, and neither did Harry. John decided that they'd grab a quick sandwich at Speedy's just downstairs from them before doing the serious shopping. Harry picked out a nondescript turkey bap while John selected a more robust roast beef sandwich. Thus fortified, they caught a cab out to a shopping district.

The shopping was amusing, agonizing, and overall tiring, but the two returned to Baker Street with a large selection of clothing, some toiletries, bedding, and a nice leather collar and lead for Wolfgang. John had even had Harry select a few books to read, as he and Sherlock really had nothing to interest a child in their flat. John could hardly whip out his gun to show Harry, and Sherlock had best not show him _any _of his disgusting experiments.

Harry and John made their way up the steps, both flushed with exertion and happiness and entered the flat, where they met with a most alarming sight that had the boy and the doctor exclaiming in shock.

000ooooo0000oooo

Sirius was pleased. Harry was being well-taken care of, and Dr. Watson seemed like a lovely man. He wasn't too sure about that crazy flatmate of his, or the brother, but Sirius was more than fine with the good doctor. And it had nothing to do with his charming mannerisms, or kind face, or how he dealt with Harry... he mentally shook himself. He knew for certain it wasn't those awful jumpers he seemed to insist on wearing! He seemed to have foisted off one onto Harry as well. Sirius swore, as soon as his name was cleared, he was going to dress Harry _properly_. The pair had gone out clothes shopping, and Merlin only knew what they would come back with.

But now it seemed as though he would have a few hours to himself, and what he really wanted to do was get cleaned up. There's only so much a bath as a dog can do for a person. He trotted into the loo and made sure the door was partially closed before transforming.

Staring intently at his reflection, he saw that the bath had gotten rid of the dirt and grime from his skin. However, his hair was still long and unkept, and would have to remain that way until he had a reliable method to get rid of it. He wouldn't put it past that Sherlock fellow to notice a stray hair and immediately deduce that it belonged to Sirius Black, wanted mass murdered. He had no clue how those muggles did it... he had never seen such deductive power, even from Dumbledore!

Sirius sighed and spread some toothpaste onto his finger, and began washing his teeth. He took care of certain necessities, before changing back to a dog and making his way to Harry's room. He eyed the trunk and changed back into a man. He had protected it earlier because there was sure to be magical items in it, and it would be difficult for Harry to explain that to muggles. The umbrella man, Mycroft, had said that Sherlock and John would fall under family laws, so they would probably find out about magic eventually. Perhaps it was silly of him, but as Harry's rightful guardian, Sirius wanted to find out about his godson first.

He opened the trunk and was met with the unorganized clutter of a teenager. The clothes weren't folded – they mixed with robes and books indiscriminately. He thought he saw a glimpse of a silvery invisibility cloak, and smiled as he remembered the Marauder's adventures at Hogwarts. He also saw a broom, lovingly cared for and of good quality. He was so glad to know that James' son loved flying as much as James. He couldn't wait to see a game, and wondered what position Harry played. Judging by how small he was, probably Seeker, Sirius thought with glee.

As he was reminiscing about Quidditch games and Gryffindor escapades, his eye was caught by a book-like object that was most certainly not a textbook. He pulled it out and opened the page, and was met with the smiling faces of Lily and James. Tears rushed to his eyes as he stroked the picture reverently. There they were, his best mate, and the most amazing woman he had ever known. Both dead, thanks to his stupidity and that traitor. He sniffed, and lost himself in the pictures. There were Lily and James when they first started dating. Lily with her friends by the lake. Lily and James at their wedding. Sirius closed the trunk and sat on it, mesmerized by the happy faces. There he was, so young, so care-free, the ravages of Azkaban alien to his face. He smiled regretfully, and was so caught up in memories, he almost missed the quiet snap of the flat door. His mind went numb for the few crucial moments it took for someone to cross to the room, and he barely managed to change back into Padfoot before the door had opened and he was staring guiltily at the suspicious form of Sherlock Holmes.

00oooo0000ooo000

Sherlock returned to Baker Street with a self-satisfied spring to his step. He had successfully chased down the pedophile that had accosted Harry, and had dropped him off for Lestrade to deal with, and was looking forward to chasing down Harry's relatives tomorrow. Now, though, he wanted to return home and think out the mystery that was the Potter boy.

He entered 221 B and immediately observed that John and Harry were out, but the dog was still here. Ah, and they had cleared out his office, judging by the garbage bags peeking out of his bedroom. He pouted slightly for a moment, moving towards the office to see what could be salvaged. As he opened the door, he met the pale, startled eyes of Wolfgang, who was crouched awkwardly over what looked like a photo album. The dog was pressed against the trunk, so he supposed that was where the album had come from – wait! What was that? There was movement coming from the two dimensional surface of the photographs. Was it a hologram? Sherlock and Wolfgang eyed each other for a long moment before Sherlock lunged for the album. Wolfgang yelped and snapped his teeth protectively over the book, and Sherlock took advantage of the sudden movement to approach the trunk. Wolfgang seemed torn between the trunk and the album, but evidently decided that the trunk was more in need of protection, and moved to scare Sherlock off of it. When the dog had committed itself, Sherlock quickly rolled and scooped up the album, making a dash for the living room. He made it out the door when Wolfgang latched onto his trouser leg, worrying at the fabric. Sherlock dragged the dog with him, frantically attempting to open the album, to verify what he had seen, and when the pages fell open he was extremely shocked, so much so that he halted in place.

Wolfgang, sensing weakness, tackled the detective, and dog and man sprawled on the floor with the photo album open for the world to see. Sherlock was at a loss for words, and Wolfgang was whining and growling when the door opened and they saw Harry and John's shocked faces.

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><p>So! What do you think? Magic is about to be outed and Sherlock will be absolutely insane until he figures it out! Please review and tell me how you think this is going, any suggestions or constructive criticism is welcome!<p>

I'll try not to leave you hanging for so long, but I have some other crossovers I'm working on as well, so hang in there :)


	12. Chapter 12

Hellllooooooooo readers! Finally! Another update! Yes, yes, applaud me and send me fruit baskets, I have not abandoned this fic! Haha.

In all seriousness, I'm not too sure how I feel about this chapter. I wasn't sure the best way to reveal magic, and I know this scene doesn't do much for actual displays of magic, but Harry's not allowed to do that outside of school anyway.

Thank you for your marvelous reviews - they honestly keep me going. I can't believe I'm almost at 500 - I never thought I'd get this amount of response for this fic! Special thanks to Suosikki, elohopeaa, NATWEST, mabidiso, and CheddarTrek for your input last chapter, and thanks, MelodySong231 for the offer. I may take you up on it.

General Disclaimers: I don't own any of the characters I mention, and the names of the texts are not mine either.

Warnings:...umm possibly not well-thought-out writing? We'll see how it goes. Be on your guard. That being said, enjoy!

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><p>John absorbed the scene with a sense of bemusement. Sherlock was wrestling with a dog. He wished he could say that he had seen everything, but knowing Sherlock disproved that statement about five times every day. He was shaken out of his stupor by Harry's low cry. With an inarticulate moan, Harry quickly stepped forward and grasped at the book Sherlock was clutching. When Sherlock's hands tightened unconsciously on the leather binding, Harry's hands grew frantic, and Wolfgang growled and worried at his sleeve. Taken aback, Sherlock released the album into Harry's worried embrace, and Wolfgang subsided. Harry backed against the couch, stroking the leather, checking for damage, but not opening it. His face was pale, and Wolf snuggled up against the boy, somehow managing to look very contrite.<p>

During these events, John had managed to piece together what had happened in his head, and he rounded on Sherlock angrily.

"You couldn't help yourself, could you?" He demanded. "You couldn't just _wait_ until we got home, you had to go through Harry's things. Those are _private_ Sherlock; it is very disrespectful to go tearing through another person's possessions, I'm sure Harry would have just shown you had you asked!" John had worked himself into a scathing irritability, and Sherlock, for once, looked at a loss for words. He gazed at John, then his eyes flicked to the large black dog pressed against Harry.

"John," Sherlock began, "I didn't go through Harry's possessions – the dog had the album out when I arrived at home, but it is the most incredible thing, John! The photographs -"

"Sherlock!" John cut across him before he started spouting his deductions that John could barely ever follow, "Wolf did not get the album out! You can't blame it on the dog, Sherlock, we are not in primary! Take responsibility for your actions and apologize to Harry!"

Harry seemed to have calmed down and ascertained that the album was undamaged, but now he was looking positively sick with apprehension. He looked up and saw the flatmates glaring at each other, neither willing to listen to the other. He cleared his throat and asked in a shaky voice,

"Mr. Sherlock? You didn't ... you didn't _see_ the pictures, did you?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped from John to Harry, who was looking positively sick with apprehension. He grinned, a full-out expression of glee that John only associated with the most clever and impossible murders. A chill ran down his spine.

"Yes, Harry," Sherlock – John didn't know that Sherlock's voice could purr, but here it positively did, "what _interesting _photographs you have there."

John coughed, and broke in again, "Really Sherlock, let up. Harry is a teenager – it is perfectly understandable if he has a few pictures that, er, that is to say..." he trailed off as Sherlock laughed – a short bark of amusement that had John very nervous.

"Oh, John, it is nothing so _dull _ as that! Though the format of these pictures may make images of the, ah, Irene Adler variety quite a bit more interesting and blackmail-worthy. No, no! Harry, could you possibly tell us why your two dimensional images, with no discernible wireless connection or screen, are able to _move_?"

Harry, if possible, paled even further, and John saw the dog seem to shrink into itself and whine slightly. Nonplussed, he broke the thick silence.

"Move? You mean, like holograms, or 3D..." he trailed off as Sherlock's pale eyes snapped towards him.

"John! Listen to me, for God's sake. I said they _move_, as if it were a small, two dimensional video clip on replay. The photographs play the same scene, presumably for quite some time, if Harry would only let me take a look." Sherlock's attention quickly shifted from his flatmate to his new charge, and he eagerly stepped forward, reaching for the album. Harry, however, cringed back into the cushions, clutching the book even tighter to his chest. Wolf stepped in front of Harry, and snarled, baring teeth that were, John admitted to himself, terrifyingly large. Sherlock paused, piercing the dog with his icy stare, before flicking his eyes to the distraught boy. He frowned, and John just knew that he was plotting a way around the dog and towards Harry. Harry's expression was agonized; he looked as though he would defend his album tooth and nail, but he also looked sick with anticipation of John and Sherlock's possible rejection of him. John decided to head that thought off as quickly as possible.

"Harry," he began, "if those pictures are private, I understand, but we are your guardians now. You can trust us – we won't be angry with you or like you any less no matter what you do."

Harry's eyes flicked back and forth between Sherlock and John. He licked his lips, and shifted nervously, still clinging to the album like a lifeline.

"It's not that I don't trust you," Harry said finally, with a pleading glance at John, "it's just that it's a really big secret. I could get in trouble if I tell you. Mu – erm, you're not supposed to know." Harry informed them with an apologetic look towards Sherlock. A heavy silence fell over the room.

John glanced at Sherlock, who was obviously doing some very quick thinking – quick for him, that was. He seemed to be looking through the leather cover of the book, and was muttering to himself with a small line between his brows betraying the extent of his concentration. Wolf seemed to relax when no one moved toward Harry, and sat back on his haunches, pressed against the boy.

Finally, Sherlock addressed Harry.

"You recall, Harry, that my brother placed you under mine and John's guardianship?" he queried. Harry gave a slow nod, so he continued, "then perhaps you remember Mycroft saying said guardianship subjects us to 'family laws'. I assume this means something to you, particularly when mentioned in conjunction with 'partial disclosure'. I have to infer from this context that disclosing whatever secret you are guarding will not result in your being penalized." Sherlock concluded his explanation with a triumphant smirk. Harry blinked, trying to process what Sherlock had just said. John sighed at Sherlock's vocabulary – the kid was twelve, for God's sake! - and paraphrased for Harry.

"He means that because we're like your family now, you can probably tell us the secret without getting in trouble, right? If you want to." John smiled reassuringly at Harry. Harry nodded slowly, and bit his lip. He drew a quivering breath, and shifted the album in his arms.

"I – I can probably tell you, you're right," he started, and Sherlock grinned with gleaming eyes, "but – but you might not like me after I tell you. You probably won't want anything to do with me," he finished sadly, looking down. Sherlock opened his mouth, probably to say something insulting and insensitive and _entirely _counter-productive, so John cut him off. He moved slowly towards Harry, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"Harry, when we agreed to take you in, we did so _because_ we like you, and we want to look out for you. You obviously haven't been looked after very well, and you've gotten by," he said hastily, for he saw a flash of indignation in Harry's eyes at him implied helplessness, "but the point is you shouldn't have had to. We're here to support you _no matter what_. And even if it turns out that the news isn't great, we'll work through it. We'll listen to you, and we'll make it work. So please, could you tell us, if you're comfortable, because I think Sherlock is about to explode." This last John said with a mocking smile as he wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder. Harry had stiffened at first, then relaxed into the loose embrace, smiling tentatively back at John. He looked mildly dazed, and John maneuvered them so that they were sitting together on the couch. Wolf curled up on the other side of Harry, and Sherlock stalked forward eagerly, glad to be past the reassurances and coddling, evidently.

Harry leaned into John, and looked up at Sherlock through his dark eyelashes. He cleared his throat, and stroked the album.

"The pictures were moving," he said quietly, "all of the ones in here do that. They're my pictures of my mum and dad. Mum and dad, they were," here he hesitated. He looked imploringly at John, who nodded gently. Wolf nudged him in the side and licked the hand on the album, and Harry turned to meet Sherlock's steady gaze. "My mum and dad were magical – they were a witch and a wizard," Harry said with a an assertive voice. He opened up the album to display it to the men, and said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I'm a wizard, too."

00oooo0000oo

_Impossible_, was Sherlock's immediate thought. Magic defies everything observable – it conveniently explains away things that _would_ make sense if only people used their minds. He rerouted his train of thought as he stared at the open pages of the album. There was no technology to make an image do that – not yet. Carefully, looking to Harry for permission, he plucked a photograph out of the book. It was entirely identical to a normal, if old-fashioned, picture. There was no screen, no wireless receptor to project pixels onto a super-thin screen. It was impossible for this to be a video set on replay. It was impossible for this to be an optical illusion made by shifting one's perspective of the image. The solution offered to him was that it was magic. _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_. Never had he hated quoting himself, but upon applying that practice, he was left with the incontrovertible fact: magic existed.

Sherlock spared himself a moment of self-pity, before excitement flared in him. This opened up whole new realms of possibility! There was so much to learn! What were the limitations of magic? How does one harness and use magic? What crimes, previously unsolved, could be explained, logically, by magic? He almost cackled in glee. He had been lamenting the dullness of existence mere hours ago, and now, this _wonderful_ new project had literally come knocking at his door. He looked up from the photograph to meet Harry's anxious green eyes.

Ah, he thought, fear of rejection. This is probably what caused his relatives' distaste for him – if he had been born to parents able to harness magic, and lives with presumably mundane relatives, then either his aunt or his uncle had been previously aware of magic, though their sibling. The inability to perform magic undoubtably engendered a resentment towards the practice, possibly enhanced by fear. The bitter sibling would be faced with raising the child of the talented brother or sister, and watch as it displayed similar talents, resulting in antagonistic behaviour. Harry has lived with this all his life, he realized, and has never had it explained to him. He just knew that he was unloved, and believes it to be his fault his is unwanted.

Contrary to what most believe, Sherlock did not have a total disregard for others' emotions. He was able to discover motive, and manipulate people into giving him information, and that required an understanding of the human emotive and thought processes. He could guess what it was that Harry feared, and what he needed, and where he wouldn't bother with most people, Harry could provide him with information on magic, so it would be worth his while to reassure the boy. It had nothing to do with the way those green eyes were gazing at him so imploringly. He was certainly not moved by such things.

Sherlock smiled widely at Harry, and said, "this is simply brilliant, you must tell me all you know! How does one harness magic? What can be done with it? How are you trained in its utilization?" Harry blinked at the barrage of questions, and John was staring at him agape. Sherlock suddenly had an epiphany. "Your trunk! There are magical implements in it! May I see them? Please?" Sherlock almost begged. John was staring at him like he had never seen him before, but Harry was grinning at him delightedly.

Good, he thought, the boy seems sufficiently reassured that I will not turn him away. Indeed, my interest in the subject is evidently a positive to him, he thought smugly. John broke in then.

"Harry, while you having magic is amazing, do not let Sherlock have free access to your trunk unless you want all of your things experimented on," he said grimly. Harry's smile flickered for a moment before it came back bigger than before.

"John, you can come and pick out things for Sherlock to look at!" Harry said enthusiastically. "Sherlock, you wait here," the boy said in a strict tone, which was rendered rather ineffective due to how adorable he was when he was trying to look severe. Not that Sherlock ever thought anything was adorable. He huffed indignantly and crossed his arms as the two made their way toward Harry's room.

When they were safely ensconced in the room, and had their attention appropriately diverted, judging by the low murmurs he could hear, Sherlock turned and faced the dog, which was still lounging on the couch. He fixed it with an appraising glare.

"Don't think I've forgotten you," he said. "I know you got that album out, and now that magic is a viable solution, I will be looking for how you did so. Harry claims that he only met you the other day – I will find out the reason for your attachment to him, as well as the extent of your abilities. I will work under the assumption that you can understand me, so don't bother playing the idiot. And don't even contemplate interfering with Harry," he concluded. The dog glared at him, baring his teeth, before snorting and burying his nose in his paws.

Sherlock heard a sharp tapping at the window, and turned to see what had made the sound. His eyes lit up, and he lunged for the catch that would open it, while Wolfgang looked up interestedly.

0000oooo0000

Harry shifted through the stuff in his trunk, still on a high of happiness. Mr. Sherlock and John knew about him being a wizard _and they still liked him_. John was treating him just the same, and Sherlock was _interested_ in magic, not afraid or condemning of it. It was such a relief, and made him feel so warm inside that he was kind of embarrassed. He was also embarrassed because of how much he had liked John's hug, and how happy Sherlock's kind of creepy smile had made him. He dug out his magical items, as John sorted through his schoolbooks. He was muttering to himself, and Harry listened with half an ear.

"_The Standard Book of Spells_, two volumes, that should make him happy. _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ good Lord he'll want to experiment. Perhaps don't show him those ingredients just yet, let him burn himself out on information first," he said as Harry shifted his Potion's supplies. "Yes, definitely _don't_ let him at your – your cauldron, is it? He'll probably blow the flat up." John said this last part with an exasperated air. Harry smiled.

"My friend Neville is horrible at Potions – he's melted a few cauldrons and he's always exploding things," he confided to John. John looked interested at this.

"So you go to school for this, then? Amazing." He looked at the books spread out before him, with subjects such as Transfiguration and Potions, and smiled at Harry's pile of magical paraphernalia. "So, what have you got there, Harry?" he asked, and Harry smiled at him. He proudly displayed his most prized possessions – the potions ingredients were shoved off to the side. John whistled lowly when he saw Harry's wand, and looked at the Nimbus with curiosity. He didn't ask questions however, and he gave the Cloak a mere passing glance.

"Why don't we just take out your books for now, yeah? We don't want Sherlock destroying any actual magic stuff," he said with a smile at Harry. Harry nodded happily, and helped John pick up the texts he had accumulated through two years of magical education. The went back to the sitting room, arms loaded down, only to be met with another extraordinary sight.

0000oooo0000

Sherlock was crouched on a table, frozen in an awkward position as he tried to maintain his balance on the shaky foundation of books and papers. Wolf had his tail in the air and was wagging it energetically as he panted, slobbering onto the floor. But the most astonishing thing was the white bird that was facing off with Sherlock from the mantle. She was perched next to the skull, and her wings were flared out, making her appear three times larger than she actually was. Her golden eyes were glaring at Sherlock's outstretched hand, and her beak was snapping angrily.

"Harry," John began weakly, "what ...?" He trailed off uncertainly, not sure how to phrase the question.

Harry peeked around his books, and his face absolutely lit up.

"Oh, that's Hedwig!" he said enthusiastically. "Hi, Hedwig!" The owl, amazingly enough, rotated her head without shifting anything else, and made a soft mewling sound at the boy. It almost sounded motherly, and Harry grinned. He met John's eyes, and said in a proprietary tone. "She's my owl."

John just stared at the scene before him, and wondered why Sherlock had to engage in an altercation with every animal that entered their flat. This led to the thought 'why are there animals in our flat?', and that led to John wondering if Mrs. Hudson's fondness for feeding strays would extend to allowing a pet owl. He came to the conclusion that the addition of Harry to their household would make his and Sherlock's previous adventures look quite sensible and prosaic in comparison.

* * *

><p>AN: So, thoughts? How do you think it went? Are the different pov still working? I'm hoping this is flowing OK, and not going too fast. I didn't want to go too far into Harry's emotions, because teenagers just aren't that introspective about stuff like that, but I felt that it needed to be explained. And I know that Sherlock is seen as an someone oblivious as to how to act around people, but that doesn't mean that he <em>can't<em> behave, he just considers it to be a waste of time. Someone with that amount of understanding about motivation and human thought process would have to be able to observe how others react, and I think Sherlock simply never feels the _need_ to operate as a normal person.

Please review, it means so much to me, and I love hearing your thoughts and suggestions! You guys are part of the reason I write! Yay, You! (But mostly yay, me. I just like writing haha.)


	13. Chapter 13

HELLLOOOOOO!

I apologize most profusely for my long absence! Well, I wasn't really absent - just not updating, but please don't hate me! I was a bit stuck on a transition for this fic, and I've managed it, I think with a kind of summary. It's written a bit differently, with the POVs not being quite as clear, so I'm sorry if you don't like it. I made it nice and long to make up for it, though. Again, I implore you not to hate me.

I actually have quite a reasonable reason for this non-updatingness - I've recently moved to Thailand! I'll be here for a year, helping with an English school, but a lot of the past month or so has been preparations - a visa, passport stuff, accomodations, apartment and job stuff... and now that I'm here, I'm doing a bunch of lesson plans and workshops. Busy busy busy! And I have a bunch of other fics on the go (check em out!coughcough) that are calling for my attention. I know I should just pick one and finish it, but inspiration comes and goes, and rotating them keeps my ideas fresh and keeps me from getting bored. A lot of the time, a scene from one fic will spark a scene or dialogue in another. Oh the webs we weave...

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the mentioned characters or ideas. Honestly. At least, I don't think I do...

Warnings: Umm... possible bad writing, and ... spoilers for book 2? Though if you haven't got the plot for book 2 down by now, I say it's about time and will now force you to read this. So there. Also warning for... the plot line. I am in Thailand, without my trusty canon, and can't be bothered to look up COS plot points. So this is just how I remember them from the books, sorry if I get confused. But when I was writing, I was trying to channel a 13-year-old. If you met my brother, you'd know how rambly they get when they talk. It's almost as bad as my author's notes :D

Anyway, enjoy, and please review! Or don't, but I will send the people who review a bunch of Thailand love!

* * *

><p>Harry and John were in the kitchen, cleaning. John had declared that if they were going to have a child (Harry had bristled indignantly at this) in the flat, they needed an official purge. Actually, an extermination team might just do the trick – John swore that some of Sherlock's 'experiments' were coming to life. Harry figured that it wasn't really any worse than cleaning up after Dudley, and even if some of the things were a bit disgusting (human toes? Ick!) they were no worse than some of his Potions ingredients – which Sherlock was still forbidden from touching.<p>

Sherlock himself was in the living room, tearing avidly through several of Harry's schoolbooks with Wolf snuffling interestedly around him. He seemed to be cross-referencing Harry's Potions texts with One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, and would occasionally shout questions to Harry through the doorway. Harry would pause in the cleaning, rack his brains for an answer, and usually end up replying with something along the lines of 'umm, my friend Hermione would probably know.' Sherlock would make a 'tsk' sort of sound, and Harry would duck his head and blush. He had never really seen the point in trying academically; the Dursleys would be furious if he got better than Dudley's less-than awesome grades. At Hogwarts, Ron didn't really seem to care much about academics, preferring Quidditch or chess, and Hermione was just _such_ a try-hard that he honestly didn't think studiousness was in his capabilities. It had worked so far – he and Ron bumbling along with Hermione fluttering around them with her inevitable corrections.

Now though ... though Sherlock and John didn't say anything, Harry felt a bit ashamed. Here Sherlock was, trying so hard to understand such new and interesting things, and Harry couldn't help him! He wasn't even that great of a resource when it came to wizarding culture – he knew it was different, but he hadn't really bothered to find out. Sherlock pointed out that judging by the materials they used, the society appeared to have stagnated, and their mannerisms probably had as well. There were most likely some very different social expectations, and Harry had a horrified epiphany – how many people had he inadvertently offended with his actions? Sure, he thought the Purebloods were a bit snooty, but the more that he thought about it, the more he realized that a lot of muggle-borns (or muggle-raised) seemed to impose muggle expectations on Wizards. This wasn't very fair, as they quickly grew very judgemental, which would obviously put the wizards on the defensive. He wondered why Hogwarts didn't have an orientation to the magical world, or something. It would probably help ...

A loud series of thuds echoed from the living room, and Harry and John paused in their cleaning to glance at each other. Without saying a word, they rushed into the next room to find Sherlock surrounded by several very glossy books, a large scowl prominent on his face.

While John was looking about in despair at the mess Sherlock had made, Harry was focused on the books. He noticed Wolf tentatively pawing one, his upper lip curled over his massive teeth in a silent growl. He was acting as if the books were about to attack him. On closer inspection, Harry saw that the mistreated books (you didn't become friends with Hermione Granger without learning all of the ways one can defile a book) were the Lockhart texts that Harry had had to purchase last summer. He glanced up at Sherlock questioningly.

"Those," Sherlock began, his voice dripping with scorn, "are absolute, unjustifiable rubbish. With the limited amount of knowledge I have managed to acquire on your ... society, I can easily deduce that most of the actions taken by this man are utterly unfeasible. Harry, if you have absorbed any of this information, delete it from your mind immediately. The man who wrote these books is a fraud, and I believe my IQ has been lowered just by touching them."

John made a huffing noise that was partly amused and partly exasperated. Harry gave a shy grin to the indignant man.

"I know he's a fraud. My friends and I found him out at the end of term. Turns out he went about collecting stories about things that other witches and wizards did, then wiped their memories and took the credit," Harry explained. "It's a good thing, too – he was a right ponce. All the girls had the most massive crushes on him, and his teeth ... they were shiny!" Harry said, trying to convey just how annoying Lockhart had been.

"Wait," interrupted John, "this man was at your school? As a professor? They wouldn't let him teach with such fake credentials, would they?"

"And when you say he was discovered to be a fraud by yourself and your... friends... do you mean that you noticed the time overlap in the stories? Or were you alerted by the overly fictitious tone in the writing?" Sherlock inquired.

Harry shook his head absently, and watched as Wolf managed to flip a glossy cover so the blonde ex-professor was facing the floor. "We – that is to say, me and Ron – went to ask him for help with something, and found him about to do a runner. We got all mad, and he started explaining to us about how he did it, then he tried to obliviate us, so I disarmed him. He ended up having a wand backfire on him and losing his memory, so he won't be teaching next term." Harry was saying this in a rambling manner, tracing the back cover of the book as he lost himself in memories of that evening at the end of term, so he didn't see John's increasingly horrified expression, or Sherlock's raised eyebrow. As he trailed off, however, John began spluttering, while Sherlock was more interested in the dog's apparent reaction to Harry's words. His hackles were raised, and he was now growling lowly at the book he had been toying with.

"That man was a teacher? And he tried to attack you? And if you – you disarmed him, how did he get a backfiring wand? And ... and..." John seemed at a loss for words in his incredulity, so Sherlock stepped in.

"Why was he deciding to 'do a runner,' as you phrased it, and why were you going to such an obviously incompetent individual for assistance?" He asked severely.

Harry looked up, shocked to see how concerned they seemed over it. He frowned slightly, then decided he may as well tell them of his exploits last year, seeing as they already knew of magic. It was better than them asking more about the Dursleys – school was something he actually liked. When he wasn't trying to avoid death, at least.

In a meandering manner that caused an impatient Sherlock no end of aggravation, Harry began the incredible tale of his second year at Hogwarts.

"Well," Harry started, "I guess it began on Halloween. No, wait, it really started in the summer, only we didn't know it. The father of this prat at school slipped a magical diary into my friend's sister's cauldron when we were shopping." It was a testament to how much John put up with that he didn't bat an eye at this intricate explanation. It was amazing that Sherlock wasn't interrogating Harry more severely in order to get more succinct information. Harry paused, thinking if he had the setup correct, before nodding and continuing.

"Anyway, nothing happened until Halloween, when me and Ron and Hermione -" here Sherlock twitched at Harry's grammar - "went to Nearly-Headless-Nick's deathday party. It was awful, actually, a bunch of ghosts and rotting food... anyway, we were missing the Halloween feast for it, so we decided to leave and get some actual food, when I heard a weird voice in the walls. It was saying something about killing, and blood, and I started following it, and Ron and Hermione followed me."

John sighed, and murmured, "Of course, you followed it. Right." Harry looked at him inquiringly, but he just shook his head and motioned for Harry to continue.

"Well, Ron and Hermione couldn't actually hear the voice, so they were following me, and we ended up in a flooded corridor when I couldn't hear the voice anymore. And we found the caretaker's cat, Mrs. Norris, strung up by her tail with a bunch of bloody writing on the wall. It said, erm 'The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware' and then people got out of the feast and found us there and started freaking out. Filch got really angry, 'cos Mrs. Norris is his cat, and said that we did it because we were the first ones there. And because I knew that he was a squib."

"A squib?" Sherlock shot out.

"A non-magical person from a wizard family," Harry explained. "I didn't really care, but he thought it was a big deal. After that, it got pretty horrible, because lots of people thought I might have done it. The Chamber of Secrets was one of the Founder's secret places, and we found out that a monster lived in there. Everyone was really scared, because that founder didn't like muggles or muggle-born kids, so the monster would probably attack the muggle-borns, like my friend Hermione. Nothing really happened though, until we had a Quidditch match and I ended up in the hospital wing because Lockhart was an idiot," here, John looked like he was going to interrupt, but he saw how frustrated Sherlock was with Harry's rambling narrative, that he decided to save his questions for when Sherlock was done. Harry continued uninterrupted.

"I was in the hospital wing, but I couldn't sleep 'cos of my arm, and this barmy house elf came and tried to get me to leave school, and then the Headmaster and my Head of House came in with the nurse with a student. He had been petrified, which is what happened to Mrs. Norris, and he was a muggle-born in my house. This had everyone really panicking, so Lockhart – that's the git who was teaching Defence – decided to start up a duelling club. Snape made me duel Malfoy, and even though we were only supposed to be disarming, he conjured a snake at me!" Harry said this with some indignation, as he looked to Sherlock and John. Sherlock was looking as though he were about to burst with the questions he was holding in, and John was becoming steadily more and more appalled at Harry's school. Wolf's attention had snapped away from the book when Harry mentioned Snape, and there was a constant low growling resonating throughout the room. Harry huffed for a moment, but at an encouraging gesture from John, he went on.

"Well, Snape was about to get rid of the snake, but then Lockhart stepped in to try. It didn't go away, though, and just got really mad. It started to go after another student, and it was going to bite it, so I yelled at it to stop." Here, Harry looked nervous, as though he were expecting John and Sherlock to hate him. "It really just sounded like English to me, but apparently it sounded like hissing... so I sort of found out I can talk to snakes... it's called being a Parselmouth, and only really Dark Wizards can speak Parseltongue..." here he trailed off, looking fearfully at John and Sherlock, anticipating rejection. But while Wolf had stopped growling, at had uttered a confused whine, Sherlock's eyes were suddenly bright, and he couldn't help but interject.

"You can actually speak to snakes? Fascinating. Do they hear you? They don't have ears. Does the language only apply to snakes, or does it cover other serpentine creatures, or even reptiles. Is there a written form of the language?" Harry was looking quite overwhelmed at the barrage of questions, and he turned pleading eyes to John. John had caught the worry in Harry's eyes, and was quick to reassure the teen.

"Harry, I think that any gifts you have are just that – gifts. You have magic, you can speak to snakes, and those are great things. We want you to stay with us, right, Sherlock?" He gave the consulting detective a pointed look. Sherlock looked like he wanted to keep asking questions, but when he met Johns eyes, he saw the warning there and gave a perfunctory nod that seemed to satisfy Harry, if not John or Wolf. Reassured, Harry went on with his tale.

"Well, after everyone found out I was a Parselmouth, they thought that I was the heir of Slytherin, because he was a Parselmouth. So most of the students were really scared of me, and wouldn't talk to me," Harry said this with a light tone, but the men saw Harry's eyes darken with remembered hurt. "Justin, the boy the snake was going to attack, was avoiding me because he's a muggle-born as well. I wanted to let him know that I didn't have it out for muggle-borns at all – Hermione and my mum are muggle-born! - but before I could talk to him, he got petrified, too."

John's eyes narrowed. It seemed as though Harry attracted unfortunate situations to himself – he didn't know if this was part of being a wizard, or if Harry was just extremely unlucky.

"So then the school – well, they basically hated me," Harry said in a self-effacing manner that had both John and Wolf's hackles rising. The boy really needed to work on his sense of self-worth; he had sounded far too accepting of people hating him. "Nothing much was happening, but then there was a game, and our friend Hermione, she realized something and ran off to the library. She always does that, but this time... she and another girl were found petrified. It was awful. And then our friend, Hagrid the Gamekeeper got chucked into Azkaban so the Ministry would be seen as doing something! It was awful – they just threw him in there with no actual proof!" Harry was highly indignant over this fact, and rightly so, John couldn't help but think. Wolf had shrunk into himself at the mention of Azkaban, and growled weakly when Harry had exclaimed over the hasty sentencing of his friend. Sherlock's keen eyes picked up on this of course, and he directed a question to Harry.

"Was there any reason to believe that – ah – Hagrid, had anything to do with the attacks? And is there a precedent for a lack of lawful justice in your society?" The questions were aimed at the boy, but the dog reacted almost violently to the second one. Sherlock smirked, but held his peace as Harry answered him.

"Um, I dunno about the laws and stuff, but Hagrid was framed for opening the Chamber about fifty years ago. That time, a muggle-born girl died," Harry said solemnly, reflecting on the pathetic shade of Moaning Myrtle. Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"You know that he was framed? How?" he inquired.

"Well, we thought it _might _have been him, because this memory showed me, but we followed Hagrid's clues into the forest and found the monster that he actually had been raising was a huge spider. It said, because it could talk, that Hagrid hadn't opened the Chamber and that the monster was what spiders feared most of all. So Hagrid was framed, but we couldn't really tell anyone because the Headmaster had been suspended when Hagrid was arrested, and the teachers couldn't really interfere with the Ministry," Harry said in a matter of fact tone. John was getting a mild headache from the disorganized barrage of information, and he and Sherlock shared a long look. Finally, Sherlock turned back to Harry, muttering,

"Well, that elucidates things."

Taking this as a sign to continue, Harry did so. He had never talked this much in his life, but he was finding it oddly relieving. The Dursleys had never cared about his life, and at Hogwarts, most were more concerned with The Boy Who Lived. And even though he was essentially telling Sherlock and John the same thing he had told to Dumbledore, he felt genuine caring behind their questions, instead of the result-oriented feeling that came from his, well, reports, to the Headmaster. It gave him a warm feeling, even if he knew he'd be embarrassed later for talking so much.

"The school was getting really paranoid, what with the Headmaster gone, but Ron and I managed to slip away to see Hermione. We had really wanted to check out where the girl had been killed fifty years ago, but it was pretty good that we went, because we found the answer to what the monster was with Hermione. That's why she went to the library – and she'd torn a page out of a book and it was in her hand! The monster was a basilisk – a great big snake who's eyes can kill you and it's really poisonous. Spiders are terrified of it, so it fit with Hagrid's pet. And Hermione figured out that it had been getting around with the plumbing. So, we decided to tell the teachers about it, but before we could, we found out that Ron's little sister had been taken into the Chamber." Here, Harry paused, as John let out a sigh of compassion for the little girl, and for Harry and his friend. Wolf whined a bit, and Sherlock had his eyes closed and his palms pressed together, waiting for more information. A movement caught John's eye, and he saw yet another of Lockhart's books waving cheerfully at the room. How had a question of reading material escalated into this horror story? He shook his head in mild disbelief.

"Lockhart had been asked by the teachers to take care of the monster, 'cos I guess he'd been bragging about knowing what to do a lot. So Ron and I figured that we may as well tell him what we knew, so maybe he could help Ginny," Harry was cut off abruptly by Sherlock, who threw a hand into the air to stop his words.

"You actually considered that this man," he gestured at the useless books strewn about, "would be able to save a young girl from a deadly serpent in an unknown location?"

Harry hedged the question, flushing in embarrassment. "Well, we were pretty sure we knew the location... it was in a girl's toilet. But, yeah, we went to him. It was kind of silly, but, we didn't know what to do! Ginny could have been dead!" Harry's eyes were pleading with them to understand, and John gave him a reassuring smile, before glaring at Sherlock so that he would behave. There was absolutely no need for this, however, as Sherlock found himself rendered quite helpless by the large green eyes that were trained on him, and instead of a cutting remark, he contented himself with crossing his arms in a huff.

Harry sighed, relieved to be almost at the end of the tale. They had finally come around to what had happened to Lockhart. "Well, then we found him, and he was trying to do a runner, so we confronted him. And he told us how he hadn't done all those things, and then he tried to obliviate us for knowing his secret!" Harry ignored Sherlock's muttering on 'deplorable, butchered latin' and continued, "So I disarmed him, and Ron chucked the wand out the window, and we made him come with us to save Ginny." Despite the seriousness of the tale, John's mouth twitched in a smile. He could just imagine the blonde ponce grinning from the books being held at wand-point by two determined little pre-teens.

"We went to the bathroom where the girl had died, and it turned out we were right; there was a sink with a snake drawn at the tap, and I had to use Parseltongue to open it. It opened into this huge pipe, so we made Lockhart go down first." The two men and the dog all snorted quietly at this, then pretended that they hadn't. "It was a really long way down, and it came out, we think under the lake, and there was a ton of rat skeletons and stuff. We found a bloody huge snake skin – and we were really scared, because we didn't want to look in it's eyes – and then Lockhart tackled Ron's wand from him! He started going on about how he'd tell everyone that we were too late for Ginny, and he'd take the snake skin as proof, and he'd make Ron and I forget... but he didn't know that Ron's wand was broken. So instead of making us lose our memories, he caused a cave-in." Harry said this as though it were mildly funny, but the men were anything but amused.

"Were you alright?" John asked anxiously. "You weren't hurt, were you?" Sherlock was gazing over Harry piercingly, even though all of his injuries had already been catalogued. Wolf moved to nuzzle up to Harry, sniffing the boy to make sure he was well. All of these things gave Harry's heart a little glow, but he blushed and ducked his head and nodded.

"I was fine, but the rocks separated me and Ron, but Lockhart ended up losing his memory," Harry told them. "So that's why Lockhart won't be teaching me any longer, and we know he's a fraud." Harry beamed at them, thinking his story was complete. Which, John reflected, technically it was, but there was no way he would let Harry go without finding out the rest of the story. Sherlock looked about ready to shake the information out of the boy, so John quickly forestalled that with a question.

"So what happened after that? With in the Chamber?"

Harry flushed again – the boy changed shades faster than a mood ring! – and his eyes grew large and haunted.

"Well," he hesitated, "I had to go on alone, didn't I? Ginny ... Ginny could have been dead."

"Where were the other teachers at your school?" Sherlock asked severely. "Why did you feel that you must do this alone? It is not the responsibility of a child." John was mildly shocked that Sherlock would address the appropriateness of Harry's actions, but he wholeheartedly agreed. What sort of place was this, with murdering monsters and negligent teachers?

"I suppose they were busy...worried about sending all the students home, because of the attack. They thought they had to close the school." Sherlock snorted, and John thought he may have heard him mutter 'idiots!' Wolf was growling quietly, glued to Harry's side.

Harry picked up the story without their asking. "It was really gloomy. I got to a door with snakes all over it, so I said 'open up' in Parseltongue, again." John could see that Sherlock wanted a demonstration, but, surprisingly, he was willing to wait in favour of getting the story out faster. "It opened into this huge hall, with snake statues everywhere, and a big statue of a man... and Ginny was laid out at his feet." Harry's voice shook with emotion and repressed memories. John eyed him worriedly – he had obviously not gotten over this event, and had yet to seek assistance. Given the attitude of his relatives, John couldn't say he was surprised, but surely the school would provide counselling for such a thing? His thoughts trailed off as Harry cleared his throat.

"I tried to wake her. I really did. She was all cold, but she wasn't dead." The words were said in a whisper, and Harry's eyes were glazed, as though he were seeing the scene played out once more. "Then _he_ came, and he told me that she wouldn't wake." Both Sherlock and John desperately wanted to ask 'who', but they dared not interrupt Harry's almost trance-like state. "He was the same – the boy from the diary. Tom Riddle. He looked exactly the same as the memory from fifty years ago... I was so stupid." Sherlock's browns were drawn, and possibilities were evidently racing around in his head. "He said that we were alike. Very alike, with out ... upbringing, and our past. I didn't understand..." Harry trailed off before his eyes cleared and he sat up straighter. He looked at Sherlock and John and said, "It turned out that he was the memory of Tom Marvolo Riddle, preserved in a diary for fifty years."

Sherlock made a soft 'ah' of comprehension. "The magical diary from the shopping trip?" Harry nodded, startled, and John couldn't help but shake his head in exasperation at Sherlock's retention of details.

"Ginny had been writing to him all year... and he wrote back. Only, when he did, he was taking... magic, or life, or something from her. He possessed her, and made her write on the wall, and set the basilisk out." John shuddered at the world Harry lived in. Where an eleven-year-old child could be subjected to such a thing... but then again, he reflected, children in 'his' world saw monsters as well. Harry had encountered a mundane monster just the previous evening, who was also intent on 'possession', albeit of a different kind. He sighed at his dark thoughts, and met Sherlock's cool gaze, before looking back to the boy. Wolf had gone oddly quiet, and seemed intent on just listening.

"Turns out he was...or became, a very evil man that," Harry appeared to deliberate here, before moving on, "caused a lot of destruction for wizards and muggles. His name was Lord Voldemort, and almost all wizards and witches won't even speak his name, that's how scared they are." John absently noted that Harry was not at all afraid of the title, while Sherlock seemed to have put something together.

"An anagram, correct?" He asked. "Tom Marvolo Riddle changes to ... I am Lord Voldemort. Hmph. How dull," he said, looking unimpressed. "I assume the diary has something to do with the ridiculous moniker? 'Flight from Death' and a life force being encased in a diary; he seems to be quite intent on living, does he not?" John honestly didn't know how Sherlock connected all of this stuff. Harry looked quite as bewildered as he felt, but a strange motion from the dog had them all looking at it curiously.

Sirius had been listening in despair to what his Godson had put up with in his second year. So when Sherlock Holmes took apart not only the anagram of Voldemort's chosen name, but also the meaning behind it, he was appalled. As a pureblood, Sirius had learned French, and Latin as a child, but he didn't think that anyone in the wizarding world had realized the sinister connotations a name like 'Flight from Death' could hold. When Harry had talked about the diary, it was obvious to him that it was very dark magic. But paired with Voldemort's obsession with death... fleeing from it, preserving life in another object... he was brought back to his teenage years, before he was cast out, and his explorations of the Black Library. Extremely dark books were kept in there, and as Heir, he had had access to them all. He remembered one night, after a shouting match with his mother that shook the foundations, creeping back to his room, shivering at the thought of splitting ones soul...

_Horcruxes?_ His memories whispered to him.

John had never seen such an expression of horror on a canine face. He was sure if the black dog could pale, it would have done so. Something had frightened it, and he was beginning to suspect the dog's behaviour. And he knew that if he was only beginning to suspect, then Sherlock had suspected, observed, and at least hypothesized a fair bit of time ago. Sherlock hadn't done anything about the dog yet, however, so he decided to let it be for now. Harry just patted Wolf reassuringly before continuing his monologue.

"He spoke a bit, and then he set the basilisk on me," Harry said abruptly, causing Wolf to snap out of whatever he was doing and yelp, Sherlock to narrow his eyes, and John to gasp. He continued as if he hadn't just said he had had a deadly snake set on him. "I ran, and my eyes were closed, because I didn't want to look it in the eye. Oh! Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes, had come and brought the Sorting Hat earlier," John heard Sherlock muttering yet again, this time it was about 'mythological birds...' while Wolf looked confused at the mention of the Hat. John could sense the capitals in the naming, and Harry went on. "Fawkes pecked out the eyes, which was a huge help, but the snake could still smell me, and it was really hard to avoid – it was about sixty feet at least!" John groaned, and Wolf whimpered. "I put the Hat on, and asked for help, because I really didn't know what else to do. We haven't learned big enough spells for that kind of thing," Harry said, almost apologetically. John snorted.

"Harry, you were twelve, if I'm not mistaken. There should be _no need_ for you to know spells that would deal with that. _Nobody_ would know how to deal with that!" he exclaimed exasperatedly.

"Rooster," Sherlock suggested. Harry, John, and Wolf stared at him. He glared back, "What? Are you stupid? One of his creature books mentions basilisks, and it says that the cry of the rooster is fatal to it. A competent instructor could have pieced together the clues that an adolescent girl was able to and station roosters all over the school until it was dead!" He threw his hands in the air in his exasperation.

Harry frowned, "but, Tom made Ginny kill all of Hagrid's roosters..." he trailed off when Sherlock groaned.

"Is that it? Do wizards trade the ability to think for their magic? Did no one ask _why_ only the _roosters_ and not also the _hens_ where killed when these attacks were going on? Harry, the staff at your school is incompetent," Sherlock declared. Harry bristled, about to object, before he remembered.

There had been Quirrel, and Lockhart, as terrible examples of teachers. And Dumbledore had hired them, and he was supposed to be extremely smart, _and _had been at the school during the last attack, so he could have made a connection. McGonagall was a good teacher, but she didn't really listen to students, and she didn't do any of the things a houseparent would do in a muggle school, Harry was fairly sure. Binns was useless. Snape was a biased git. Flitwick, Sinestra and Sprout were alright... Harry looked to Sherlock and nodded grudgingly.

John sighed, and said, "well, there's nothing we can do about Harry's teachers now. If you could finish the story, Harry?" he asked. Harry nodded, and continued.

"The Hat gave me the Sword of Gryffindor, which was pretty cool, I guess... but now that I think about it, something long range would have been nicer. Riddle had taken my wand, though, so it was all I had." John tried not to let his guts twist too much; Harry was here, and relatively safe, so he had obviously come out of this. There was no reason to be so worried...

"It lunged in to bite me, and I reached up to stab it in the mouth," Harry said. Sherlock's lips had whitened, and Wolf was practically folded over Harry in his attempts to get closer to the boy. "I killed it...but..." he trailed off awkwardly. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"A sixty-foot serpent, with venomous fangs, proportionately would have a head and mouth of a size that, if one were to stab it in said orifice, in order to reach the brain, the stabbing arm would be at risk of being bitten," Sherlock babbled out. John was shocked. Sherlock never rambled, except when he was on a case. But this was different, this sounded... almost scared. Harry shrugged uncomfortably.

"Yeah, it kind of bit me. Tooth came out and went right through my arm," Harry admitted. John's hands clenched, and Wolf was licking and sniffing the boy as if to make sure he was alright." There was a slight pause, wherein Sherlock drew in a deep breath. Letting it out, he said,

"It was the Phoenix, yes? Something about healing powers?" How in the world did Sherlock not know that the Earth went around the sun, but was familiar with the characteristics of mythological creatures?

"Healing tears, yeah," Harry confirmed. "Riddle came over to gloat, and I was feeling a bit better after Fawkes fixed me up. He had flown over the diary as well, so I just sort of... stabbed the diary with the tooth. The venom killed Riddle's memory, and after a bit, Ginny woke up. We made it out, where Ron had cleared a path, and Fawkes flew us all up the tunnel. Then we found the Headmaster, who had come back, and told him everything..." Harry's story tapered to an end, as if he wasn't sure how to finish it. He looked at John and Sherlock, and asked, "Is that what you wanted to know?"

John and Sherlock exchanged a long look. There was a lot to think about, and many more questions to ask, but it was getting on towards a time fit for eating, and there had been enough of a heavy atmosphere in the air while Harry told about his second year. Only the second year! They still had to find out about the first, and about his life with the Dursleys... John could almost see these considerations flashing through Sherlock's mind. He was proven correct when the detective stood up abruptly, and said, "That was quite informative, Harry. Thank you." (John gaped at Sherlock thanking _anyone_.) "John, if you wouldn't mind seeing to a meal for Mr. Potter, I believe I'll be going out."

"Oh?" John asked. What could Sherlock be up to now?

"You seemed intent on destroying all of my experiments before we started this tale-telling – I shall leave you to your entertainment. I thought I'd take the dog for a bit of a walkie," he said abruptly. Everyone stared at him. Sherlock and Wolfgang had not shown any indication that any time spent in each other's company would be enjoyed. Eventually, Harry nodded, moving off towards the kitchen, while John and Wolf remained, eyeing Sherlock dubiously. A thin-lipped smirk stretched across Sherlock's pale face.

"I may not be able to immediately confront the adults at Harry's school for their negligence," he began in a scathing tone, "but Amadeus is a very large dog. It would not surprise me if our walk took us to Surrey..." with a positively feral grin, he turned for the door, whistling for the dog, that now bounded after him like an eager puppy.

John shook his head. Leave it to Sherlock to take the enjoyable job. Sneaking, spying, possible break-and-entry, and an even more possible confrontation with Harry's 'caretakers'. Life just wasn't fair, sometimes, he mused as he went to go help Harry fish the toenails out of the butter dish.

* * *

><p>AN: So, thoughts? That was SUCH A LONG CHAPTER. I didn't mean for it to be that long, but I thought if I was going to summarize, I was going to put some thoughts behind it that weren't the usual - this happened, then this happened, then OMG THEY DID WHAT TO YOU!? LETS YELL AND THROW THINGS!<p>

I notice that that happens a lot in 'reading the books' fics, and I wanted to avoid that. Hope it worked! Please tell me what you thought worked, and didn't work, and your thoughts on where this is going. I have the general idea, but reviews often help me flesh it out :)

I thought it was fun how a seemingly innocent question on a stupid teacher could turn into a horrifying tale of near-death and dark magic. John and Sherlock - and Sirius - are learning what it is to live like Harry Potter... Hopefully they can help out a bit.

Love you all! Happy reading


	14. Chapter 14

HELLLLLOOOOOO!

Sorry, Sorry, Sorry for the delay! I must admit that this chapter was a little daunting to write. It's slightly shorter than the last chapter as well, but whatever. I was mainly scared because it's largely a Sherlock chapter, and its so HARD getting in his head, and seeing what he sees. I'm not sure if I did him justice. I kind of cheat and make Sirius translate a lot of his deductions, but it's still very difficult.

I hope you like it, in any case. If you don't, well too bad! This is what you get!

Disclaimers: I don't own either story blah blah

Warnings: Spelling errors? My battery is dying and I want to post this before I go offline for a few hours. Ummm... Vague Sirius-with-a-crush. I don't THINK there's any bad language, but you may have a different definition of bad. OH! Mention of Petunia's unmentionables. Ick.

AND YES! I kind of snagged the use of the CCTV cameras from an awesome crossover called 'My Experiment'. Go check it out, I love it!

Please enjoy, and tell me what you think!

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><p>Ch 14<p>

Sirius felt very on-edge as he was led down the street by Sherlock. He had been fitted with what was actually a rather nice and not at all uncomfortable leather collar, to which Sherlock had clipped a matching lead. They walked down the street at a brisk pace, heading in the general direction of the park. Sherlock was smiling a closed-mouth smile that Sirius thought was particularly creepy. He was even more wary as he remembered what Sherlock had said to him in the flat – if anyone were able to figure out that the stray dog he had taken in was actually an escaped wizard accused of mass murder, it would be Sherlock Holmes. Or possibly his brother, Mycroft. Sirius had no intention of being separated from Harry (so maybe he had wanted to go after Pettigrew, but really it would make him feel much better to actually be there for Harry), so being discovered by Sherlock was not an option. He would have to tone down his more human reactions.

That would be a difficult task in the near future, if Harry's relatives were anything close to as bad as Sirius had imagined. The Holmes brothers seemed _connected_ somehow, so if any muggle would be able to secure Harry a decent home, it would be those two. And John Watson... John Watson would help, as well. Sirius had only been around him for a few days, but he could tell that the doctor was a _good person_. Harry responded to him brilliantly, and Sherlock seemed to be reigned in by the dowdily-dressed man.

Suddenly, they stopped walking. Sirius hadn't really been paying attention to where they were going, and he found that they were in an area flooded with cabs. Sherlock was giving each cab an assessing glance, before shaking his head minutely and moving on. Sirius wondered what on earth he was looking for, but then he saw that most of the cab drivers would catch Sherlock's eye, before spotting Padfoot and quickly looking away. Apparently, none of them were willing to take a dog in their cab. Sherlock had evidently come to the same conclusion (probably much earlier than Sirius had) and was no longer scanning the road. Instead, he appeared to be gazing about ten feet up from street level at the surrounding walls and streetlights.

He made a sudden sound of comprehension, and with quick strides made his way over to a phone booth. Not going inside, he leaned against it with Padfoot's lead curled loosely in his hand. Almost idly, he addressed the space in front of him in a bored tone,

"One wonders what course of action would be the most objectionable – providing a man and a dog with conveyance to Surrey, or allowing said man to create the concoctions detailed in his new ward's schoolbooks?"

Sirius had absolutely no idea who Sherlock was talking to. Was it him? He didn't expect Sirius to fall for such an obvious trap, did he? What was that he said about a ride? He waited for Sherlock to say more, but the man just smirked and started typing things into his phone with one hand.

After ten minutes of waiting, during which Sirius made sure to exhibit appropriately dog-like behaviour at regular intervals (really, it was all for appearances, he had no ulterior motives with leaping at that one woman), a very dark, very expensive car pulled up to the curb. A woman got out of the back, clutching her phone and typing away. Sherlock smiled his creepy smile, and strolled forward.

"He says that if you need a ride, you should call, or text," the woman said, not looking up from her device. Sherlock's phone buzzed, and he flipped it open to read the new message.

"Or get my own car, apparently," he commented. "As appealing as that all is, he has this network set up, and it seems a shame not to use it. Amadeus, get in the car." And with a nod to the expressionless woman, Sherlock followed a confused Sirius into the vehicle. As the door closed, Sherlock simply said, "Little Whinging, Surrey," and sunk into a brooding state.

Sirius, not knowing what else to do, awkwardly circled a few times on the seats. They were upholstered in black leather, and his claws were doing a minor number on them. No one said anything, but there was a tiny line between the woman's eyebrows, and he could swear he saw Sherlock's reflection in the window, smirking.

0000oooo0000

Surrey was dull. The houses, the gardens, the street names – they all screamed _suburbia_. Of course, they screamed it in a very controlled and socially acceptable manner, with an utter lack of inflection or emotion. Sherlock was able to deduce the lives of every household they passed just by glancing out the window, and he was frantically deleting most of his deductions from his mind palace. He had never encountered such a _waste of space_ as the community of Little Whinging. He dearly wished he could close his eyes, but on the off-chance he would see something important, he kept his eyes trained out the window, slouched in an attempt to shield himself from the incessant barrage of trivialities he couldn't help but take in.

000ooo000oo00

Sirius had slipped into a light doze. The quiet purr of the engine coupled with the absolutely _divine_ padding in the seats made it hard not to. He was startled into awareness when Sherlock burst out, "Here! Stop! We're getting out."

The car came to a smooth halt, and without any ado whatsoever, Sherlock leaped out with Padfoot's lead still clenched in his fist. This mean that Sirius was nearly choked by his new collar before he was able to get his feet under him and step out of the car himself. Sherlock only looked on in amusement at the black dog's struggles. _Smug Bastard, _Sirius thought.

Looking around, he saw that they were on a street called Magnolia Crescent. He assumed that there was some sort of purpose in them being there, so he quite patiently waited for Sherlock to get a move on. Sherlock flicked his gaze over the street, then glanced briefly at the large dog.

"This," he said, is the approximate neighbourhood from which Harry came. "We will take a walk, and I will search for the residence of his previous guardians. If you would be so inclined, I would welcome the advantage your nose could give in this case."

Sirius stared blankly at the tall man, who sighed impatiently.

"If you catch Harry's scent, follow it," he clarified with a huff.

_Oh. Right_. Sirius thought, standing and shaking himself thoroughly. They set off down the street, with Padfoot sniffing here and there and Sherlock gazing with lazy intent over the smart little houses. He began muttering to himself, which Sirius to give him a few concerned looks that he tried to pass off as doggy-curiosity.

"Husband and wife, young, no children," he said at one house, looking over the yard and windows before dismissing it and moving to the next. "Retired couple, behind on taxes and supported by family," he proclaimed at another home. Sirius rolled his eyes. He had no idea where Sherlock was pulling these deductions from, but he couldn't exactly _ask_, now, could he?

"Family of four, children too young to be either Harry or his cousin... ugh, old, widow, _cat lady_," here Sirius, or Padfoot, definitely followed this reasoning. They had turned onto a road called Privet Drive, and one of the houses positively _reeked_ of cats. However, it wasn't just cats; Sirius could definitely smell a kneazle or two there. How interesting – it seemed as though there was someone connected to the magical world in Little Whinging. At first, Sirius was worried, in the event that a wizard resident would catch him. He sternly reminded himself that they would have no reason to suspect a dog, and they probably weren't very observant in the first place, if Harry's situation was any indication. Honestly, how hard was it to keep an eye on a magical child? Any proper wizard could – ah. Sirius grinned a doggy-grin. Any _wizard_ could, at close range, monitor the physical and magical situation of a child in a muggle area. However, a _squib_ would not be able to do so, and would not have to register their place of residence with the ministry. This was a plan that had Dumbledore's name all over it – install a squib guardian to watch over the hidden Boy-Who-Lived with the Ministry none the wiser.

Sirius was brought out of his own deductions by a triumphant hiss from Sherlock.

"Yes," he said in a sibilant whisper. "There it is! Amadeus, this is the home of Harry's relatives. It is almost too obvious," he said with some disappointment.

Sirius stared at the house. There wasn't anything particularly special about it, nothing that indicated 'child-abusing-maniacs' or anything. There wasn't a car in the driveway, but the lacy curtains were open, framing the _very_ clean and shiny windows with a severe symmetry. The garden was immaculate, and the small garden shed at the side of the house wasn't anything special. Sherlock, however, saw something completely different, and he proceeded to explain it to an interested Sirius.

"First we look at the ground surrounding the house, and not the house itself. It has been a few days, but Harry's trunk is rather heavy, and has left corresponding grooves in the lawn, and scratches on the drive where he fumbled with it. So far, obvious. Looking further, we inspect the garden. It has not been worked in a few days; there are weeds sprouting up that most daily workers catch before they get to that height. The imprints around the yard indicate a smaller body making them. Harry was made to do gardening, and the Aunt, presumably, cannot be bothered to do the weeding, or pay to have it done quite yet. Also, turn your eyes, if you will, to the upper story windows." Sirius did, but only after Sherlock tugged at his lead. He _did_ need to try and act more like a dog, after all. Having appropriately directed the large dog's attention, Sherlock continued. "One of the windows has the curtains and blinds open, and from my vantage point I would claim that this is the room of a rather careless and coddled child. The other room, however, has both the curtains and blinds closed, marring the symmetry of the house. Why do such a thing? The house is presented with an alarming attention to detail, so why not open the curtains? There is obviously something that the homeowner wishes to hide in that room. A magical, mistreated nephew, perhaps? Finally, turn your attention to the border of the window." Sirius did. This was fascinating. "There is a rather shoddy paint job over it, but no longer than a year ago, there was something bolted to the outside of the window. There is still the mild discolouration and straining around the bolted area. Someone wanted to keep something inside that room, to the extent that they forgot their concern about the outside appearance of the house. A serial killer, or a true criminal, would never have such an obvious show. They work in subtlety. A couple that is dealing with magic, however, may react in ways not at all reasonable, and grow quite irrational when confronted with the unknown. Thus I put it to you that this is the house we are looking for."

Sherlock finished with a flourish and barely a pause for breath. Sirius was astounded. He was positive that the man was not a wizard, but to find so much information without the use of one charm was mind-boggling. He held sincere pity for the Ministry if they went up against this man.

"It appears that they are out for the day," Sherlock noted. He started up the walkway, and made it to the front door. With a nonchalance that the Marauders could only have dreamed of pulling off, he tried the doorknob, and seemed unsurprised when it failed to turn. He nodded, and pulled from his pocket a small, lethal-looking instrument. It was something that Sirius would have found in Dervish and Banges on a Hogsmeade weekend, back when he and the Marauders were at school. With sure fingers, Sherlock inserted one end into the lock, fiddling and twisting with almost imperceptible motions. Sirius glanced around. He was _breaking in_? In broad daylight? What on earth was the man thinking?

Just as Sirius was getting truly alarmed, the lock clicked, and Sherlock gave a satisfied, closed-mouth smile. He opened the door, holding it wide for the large dog.

"Quickly, Amadeus. The family is not so well-liked that the neighbours watching through the window at Number 6 and Number 3 won't call the police until at least 10 minutes have elapsed. They will most likely assume that the other has called, and the police response time for a neighbourhood such as this is upwards of twenty minutes. Still, best find all we can as soon as possible." With that said, he ushered Padfoot into the hall and closed the door behind them. Already, his eyes were scanning everything – the pictures on the walls (were children actually able to get that large?) to the pattern on the carpet. His eyes seemed to linger on the stairway and what lay under it, before moving on.

"Oh, my," he breathed, and Sirius swore he felt a chill from the words even through his thick coat of fur. "Harry has been slightly reticent when speaking of his ... relatives." He shook away the thought, and said the Sirius, "Amadeus, locate Harry's room for me, if you would."

Sirius started up the stairs, before reminding himself that he should, as a dog, _smell_ Harry's room. He ducked his head, then made his way up with great leaps and bounds, Sherlock following close behind. When they reached the landing, they saw a hall lined with six closed doors. Trying to emulate Sherlock, Sirius briefly inspected them. One was a loo – he could see the hint of tile in the gap. It also smelled strongly of muggle cleaning products. One was a closet, presumably for linens. It was hinged in the middle, designed to fold outwards. There was an interesting mix of fabric softener (Lily had abhorred cleaning charms for clothes, and insisted on the use of fabric softener in her home) and moth balls.

The other four doors would have to be bedrooms. On one side of the hall were the master bedroom and the guest room. The master bedroom held a positive stew of scents; women's perfume, potpourri, aftershave, and cologne. The guest bedroom betrayed itself by the stale, musty odour seeping out from the gap. That left two more bedrooms facing the front of the house. The first, Sirius was almost afraid to smell. There was sugar, and salt, and sweat all mixed up with dirty socks and clothes. It was torture to his sensitive nose. There was also the scent of cleaning products, as if there was an infrequent war waged on the sloppiness of the bedroom behind the door. That couldn't be Harry's room.

Which brought them to the last room. Padfoot inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. _Harry_. It was Harry's room. The smell of the boy, mixed with an old smell of an owl, and a sense of neglect, as if this room wasn't cleaned as thoroughly or with as much dedication as the rest of the house. So much for smell; if Sirius hadn't been relying on his nose, he could have _seen_ that this was Harry's room. Who else in the household would have bolts and a cat flap installed in their door? The way they had ... animalized Harry made Sirius growl deep in his throat.

Sherlock was also staring at Harry's door, his pale face accentuating his cheekbones into a hard, impassive mask. When he heard Padfoot's growl, he glanced to the side and just said, "Quite," before entering.

It was a heartbreaking sight. The room was filled with discarded and broken toys, obviously having belonged to the cousin, not Harry. The bed was a small twin size with a thin mattress and thinner blankets. The curtains were closed, making the room seem even more gloomy and abandoned.

There were obvious signs of a hasty departure; there was bits of paper and books scattered around the desk, and there was a 'Count-down to Hogwarts' sheet, home-made, still up on the wall. Sirius remembered when he had crafted a parchment much like it, back when he still had to spend horrific summers with his family. He shuddered. Those days were over now.

Sherlock made a brief round of the room, but apparently found nothing to his interest. He simply took everything in, drinking it up with his eyes, and said nothing. Quite suddenly, he turned and with swift steps entered the master bedroom. He was muttering to himself as he did so,

"Judging from the facial structures in the family photographs downstairs, it is the aunt who possesses a blood-relationship to him, and she is simultaneously guilty and enraged with the situation. Where would she keep things from a world which her husband refuses to tolerate?"

To Sirius' horror, he started rifling through a drawer that held lady's undergarments. Now, Sirius was no stranger to the intricacies of lingerie, (he was actually _far_ too familiar with them – stupid James and his stupid pranks), but he could not reconcile the image of _Sherlock_, whom he had already pinned as asexual or gay if he had to guess, touching _Lily's muggle sister's_ unmentionables. It was disturbing.

"Aha!" came a sudden exclamation, and Sirius was almost afraid to look. However, he wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing, so he risked a glance, and saw Sherlock looking at half-buried _letters_ of all things. Or, at least parchment envelopes. And wasn't that peculiar? Where would Petunia have gotten parchment envelopes? Muggles used a thinner style of paper, only wizards – ah. The envelopes were from wizards. Clever Sherlock.

0000oooo0000

Long, pale fingers delicately plucked the heavy parchment out from under delicate lace handkerchiefs and heinously floral scarves. There were several parchment envelopes, with the majority looking rather old. The five near the top of the stack, however, were almost new, and unopened. And the one beneath those was creased and wrinkled to the point where it had all but lost the customary stiffness that parchment possessed.

Sherlock plucked the oldest envelope from the rest of the letters. It was obvious there was information that was important in there, to the recipient, at least. Without a care, he slipped it open and began to peruse it.

_My Dearest Petunia Dursley, _

_It is with a heavy heart that I inform you your sister has been murdered._

Sherlock began to sneer. He had been around John long enough to know that, as a notice of death, this fell under the category 'not good'. As he read through the letter, picking up phrases like _Dark Lord Voldemort ... Prophesised saviour ... mother's loving sacrifice ...Boy-Who-Lived ... _and _blood wards_, his scowl grew more pronounced. He almost understood the amount of resentment the woman could develop towards her unfortunate nephew. Apparently, Harry had just been left at the Dursley's without any notice whatsoever, completely overriding any legal will the Potters may have written. There was also an understated, yet perfectly obvious threat about the so-called blood wards and the consequences of getting rid of Harry.

Sherlock sighed. Why must people be such _idiots_? Was it so hard the _think_? The old man, Dumbledore, was an absolute fool; the aunt was no better, for she channeled her anger and resentment towards her nephew, instead of upon the man who created the situation.

He moved on to another letter, this one dated from when Harry would have been five or six. Enclosed in the envelope was a British Birth Certificate that was too perfect to be real. Sherlock pocketed that absently.

The rest of the envelopes were unopened, but they were dated from June in 1991 to June 1993. Glancing at his watch, Sherlock decided to just take the letters and read them over later, perhaps with John. It would not do to get distracted when the police could be showing up at any time.

He glanced slightly downward and saw that the Dog had started sniffing at the carpet. He was almost there. Only a few more pieces, and he would be ready to confront the animal. He would have done it sooner, but he would rather be absolutely sure. There was always _one thing_ that he missed. He wanted to break that streak.

"Amadeus, come. We will go back downstairs, and perhaps rectify a mistake of yours," he said, delighting in the start of surprise the dog gave. Ignoring the reproachful look, he went down the steps and turned, coming to a halt in front of the cupboard under the stairs.

The Dog looked at him in confusion, before sniffing at the door. It's eyes widened, and it whined, looking at Sherlock in bewilderment. Sherlock knew what it would be smelling – the scent of the boy would be slightly old, but there would be no mistaking it.

"When I told you to find Harry's room, I assumed that you would sniff it out. Your assumption that his room would be upstairs was almost covered by your hasty action, however, a true dog would have smelled the closer scent and left it at that. This closet is presumably seeped in Harry's scent. You forget yourself, Amadeus," he said reproachfully. The Dog glared at him. Sherlock could care less.

Gingerly, he opened the door. There were rough marks around the edge, and strain on the door itself, indicating that it had been slammed and ripped open a fair amount over the course of several years. The hinges were rusted and bent, and the ventilation grate was tarnished from frequent slamming. This cupboard had seen far more use than the average British storage room. With a sinking heart, he looked into the small space.

There. Deductions confirmed. A small cot supported dingy blankets, and small, broken figures were tucked away behind the rags and cleaning supplies. Recently, a large, heavy, rectangular object (trunk!) had rested on the cot. Sherlock felt sick, and tried to reason away the sensation. He faced disembowelment and the most gruesome murders with a stomach of steel. Why, then, did this small cupboard make him wand to void his stomach of everything he had eaten for the past week (which was admittedly not a lot). The bedroom upstairs had only been inhabited for a few months over the last two years. Harry had lived in this cupboard for most of his life. He couldn't wait for Mycroft to get his hands on these people. See! See what depths he had sunk to, when he was willing to collaborate with Mycroft? But a health inspector with a tip of what to look for in the right place, the mention of a missing nephew... all that could go a long way.

With a grim smile, he instructed the Dog to have fun in the living room, while he attacked the kitchen. They might scream at the state of their drapes and sofas, but Sherlock could combine things in a kitchen that would have them miserable for _weeks_.

He was just putting the lid back on the sugar jar when he heard the distant sound of sirens. He whistled for the Dog and made a hasty exit out the back door. It was lucky the Dog was so large, he thought as he ran, or else jumping over these fences would be infinitely more difficult.

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><p>SOOOOOOO thoughts? I liked this chapter, even though it was a bitch to write. Sherlock is such an interesting guy - sorry if he seems OOC. He's MY version, so go find your own if you don't like him! Hisssss! Rawwrrrr!<p>

I'll try to post again soon, but I do have a bunch of other stories up in the air that need new chapters. You can go check them out while you're waiting! And post reviews on them!

I know. I'm a shameless review junkie. Whatever.

Love you all and hope you had a great Christmas and New Year! Please tell me your thoughts - it helps me avoid mistakes and makes for a better story overall!

3

xoxox


	15. Chapter 15

Hello! I'm so sorry about late chapter updateness! I've made this one extra long and hopefully awesome for you!

I can't believe it's been a year since I started this! Time certainly goes fast - I wish I was farther with my story than this. But you know - real life is real and all that.

I hope this chapter does ok. The writing was sporadic, and the characters do a lot of thinking. I'm not sure if I mentioned before, but it's more of a character-driven story than a plot-driven one. I like taking apart how I think the characters think.

It's also more compliant to the HP plotline, but jumped forward into Sherlock time. The cases covered in the episodes of Sherlock will most likely not be covered in this fic (we've already seen them, I'm not going to transcribe whole scenes from the show) but I may include some references to other Sherlock Holmes cases, and I will reference the events in the show. There's just no definite Sherlock timeline.

Disclaimers: I don't own anything recognized! Harry Potter and Sherlock do not belong to me.

Warnings: ...almost swearing? Overthinking characters? Stupid errors due to it being 1Am over here?

I hope you enjoy this - so many words! I'm super tired - stayed up late to finish that last bit, just for you guys. Tell me your thoughts!

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><p>Chapter 15<p>

John and Harry had finally declared the kitchen to be 'safe' and had retired to the living room, content to sit and stare at the mess Sherlock had made. In the back of his mind, John knew they should go get Harry some things, or perhaps do some shopping, but the kitchen had taken more energy (both mental and physical!) than he had anticipated. So it was that he turned on the telly to watch day-time shows with his new ward.

Harry seemed quite enthralled with the variety of channels, which made John suspect that he was never allowed to choose for himself. He flickered rapidly between soap operas (the type Mrs. Hudson always watched), reality talk shows (the type John regretted ever introducing Sherlock to), the news (the Black murderer was still on the loose), and BBC programs. The boy quickly dismissed both the soaps and the talk shows (thank _Lord_ for that!) and lingered only briefly on the news, frowning at the picture of the deranged-looking man. He soon flipped the channel, and they watched fifteen minutes of Antique Roadshow before looking guiltily at each other and refusing to admit that they had enjoyed the program. After that Harry selected a nature documentary and left it on. Mrs. Hudson came by with sandwiches, tea, and biscuits for them. She kept adamantly stating that she was _not _their housekeeper, she just thought Harry may be tired from all his hard work. John knew a ploy to fatten someone up when he saw it; the dear old lady tried it on Sherlock and himself all the time. Sadly, it more often than not worked for John a little _too_ well.

Harry had coaxed Hedwig to his shoulder and was feeding her bits of biscuits while munching on a sandwich. She really was a beautiful bird, John mused, and extraordinarily well-behaved. Except when she was around Sherlock, of course, but he didn't blame her. _Anyone_ would forget to behave around Sherlock. The man was just exasperating. See how he had gotten out of cleaning by going off on a wild goose chase to Surrey – and taking Wolf with him! How did he plan to get to Surrey with that monster along? John decided he'd rather not know.

Speak of the devil... John heard the click of the front door and heavy, uneven steps on the landing. He was back. Joy.

Sherlock and Wolfgang burst into the room, looking decidedly more rumpled than when they had started out. They were, however, grinning widely. It was most disconcerting, as Sherlock's teeth flashed in an almost feral way, and Wolfgang looked as if he were about to attack something. They weren't angry, however, they were quite delighted. It was a terrifying sight, and John and Harry were frozen on the couch, at a loss for what to do.

"Harry!" Sherlock called, beaming, "I have just returned from Privet Drive! Number Four, to be exact."

_Privet what?_ John thought, before looking at Harry, who had turned white. Ah, it must be his old address. Sherlock certainly works quickly.

"Hang on," John said slowly to an almost buoyant Sherlock, "didn't you say he was from Surrey? How on Earth did you get out there with _that_?" he gestured at the huge dog. Cabs would never take on such a fare, and the train lines had a strict 'no pets' policy. They also kept an eye out for Sherlock whenever they could; the harpooned pig thing had made him a bit infamous on the Underground.

Sherlock actually looked a bit sheepish. He coughed slightly, and looked away, not meeting John's eyes.

"I may have enlisted the use of a government vehicle through not _entirely_ scrupulous means," he said, waving his hand vaguely.

John thought about that while Harry grinned at Sherlock's obvious embarrassment. He wouldn't be embarrassed over a lack of morals, so it had to be... he grinned.

"You asked Myrcroft, didn't you?" he laughed.

"I issued an ultimatum!" Sherlock protested. "I most certainly did not _ask_ him for _help_," he said scathingly. John grinned at Harry, who beamed broadly back.

"Sure, Sherlock. Only it sounds a lot like you asked your older brother for a lift out to Surrey, is all," he said lightly.

"I did _not_," Sherlock said very firmly, "and that is besides the point! Harry, my inspection of Privet Drive has left me to draw the conclusion that you were not entirely truthful about your situation there," he said, eyeing Harry carefully.

John also looked at the boy. He seemed distinctly nervous about something. Harry licked his lips, his eyes shifting about, before asking, "what do you mean?"

This seemed to set Sherlock off. With the utter indignation he always adopted when people were being obtuse, he started listing things. Things John wasn't quite sure he was prepared to believe.

"On entering the house, it was immediately apparent to me that there was more traffic around a certain cupboard than what is the norm in most households. Further inspection showed that, until some two or three years ago, the _cupboard under the stairs_ had been inhabited by a small human – namely, a child. The imprint on the ... _sleeping mat_ ... was far too thin to have belonged to your rather corpulent cousin, so unless there was another child being _kept_ in the Dursley household, I must conjecture that it was your bedroom," Sherlock said all this in a biting drawl, almost daring Harry to deny the statements. John was horrified, and Harry flinched, unbalancing Hedwig and making her flutter her wings about his head. Harry refused to make eye contact with anyone, but his fists clenched into the couch and he said lowly,

"It's not my room anymore. Doesn't matter anymore."

John's heart almost broke at the expression on Harry's face. There was sullen defiance and petulance, but behind that there was hurt. His averted eyes were shadowed with pain and memories, and John just wanted to gather the boy into his arms. Or whip out his Browning on his bastard relatives. Wolfgang apparently was thinking the same thing, but the large dog acted on his impulse. He leapt lightly onto the couch beside Harry, and snuffled into the teen's side, growling in a low rumble that was at once protective and comforting. John saw Sherlock gaze at the dog for a moment before he continued.

"We may have a difference of opinion on what 'matters'," Sherlock said in a slightly condescending tone, "however the room you inhabited for the past two summers can be described as barely adequate." Here, Harry looked as he were about to protest, but Sherlock cut him off by addressing John. "John, what is the general opinion of several deadbolts and a catflap on the bedroom door of a child?"

John gaped at the consulting detective, while Harry looked mortified. He finally found his voice, and said hoarsely, "bit not good."

Sherlock looked smug. It wasn't entirely appropriate for the situation, but then, neither was Sherlock. For _any_ situation.

"You see, Harry?" Sherlock demanded, "your living arrangements were barely adequate, and your relatives absolutely deplorable for having been inflicted upon you for so many years." He gave a decisive nod to the teenager, who still looked stunned and a bit defensive. John took pity on him.

"I think what Sherlock means to say is that we're sad that you had to deal with that, but we're happy that you're here now, with us," he said gently. He looked at Sherlock, who was still smiling in a rather fixed, predatory way, and decided to ask what _that_ was all about. "Sherlock, why on earth are you smiling about all this? It's a bit 'not good' to come back all happy over finding out about," he paused, trying to phrase it delicately for Harry's sake, "this sort of thing." He frowned slightly, but Sherlock only grinned wider.

"Dudley Dursley is quite obese," Sherlock said, and Harry and John looked at each other incredulously. What in the world did _that_ have to do with anything? They could only sit and listen, though, as Sherlock went on. "There could be countless things in that household detrimental to the poor child's health. A school nurse has undoubtedly voiced concerns to the parents. If I happend to _imply_ in certain areas that a surprise examination from a health inspector would not go amiss, it can only be for the good. And I can't control whether or not the health inspector is predisposed or trained to look for evidence of something... more."

John was aware of a vague feeling of horror that Sherlock would so blatantly manipulate the system – hell, even _involve_ himself with the system! - before he saw the humour in it. Harry just looked shocked, then guardedly amused.

"You're sending a _health inspector_ to _Aunt Petunia_?" he asked, his voice taking on an incredulous glee. "Will the neighbours know?" Sherlock merely grinned his tight grin and Wolf chuffed in a way that almost sounded like laughter. John paused – weird. He sighed and looked more closely at Sherlock. To get any inspector over to Harry's relatives' house, Sherlock would have had to get Mycroft to pull some strings. Sherlock _hated_ involving Mycroft in anything, so why wasn't he pouting more? (No matter how much Sherlock denied it, he had an alarming habit of pouting over things).

"Sherlock," John said slowly, and Sherlock froze. "You're a bit too happy considering how much you had to deal with your brother today. What else did you do?" Sherlock actually looked a bit nervous, yet gleeful, as if he wasn't sure how John would react.

"Well," he said slowly, "I wouldn't wish to be so inconsiderate as to waste the health inspector's time. That house is entirely too sanitary. It's most unnatural. So I many have _helped_. Slightly." He finished speaking, looking, oddly enough, at Harry for approval. Harry stared back with the slight flickers of comprehension sparking in his eyes. John understood as well.

"You sabotaged their house, didn't you?" he accused the consulting detective. Sherlock made a face, and Harry grinned.

"Only the kitchen," Sherlock clarified. John gave him a skeptical look. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn't have time for anything else, the authorities showed up around then," he said exasperatedly.

John groaned while Harry tried to stifle his laughter. He was so not dealing with it if Sherlock was brought into a suburban court case. He'd let Mycroft take care of it. He supposed he should be happy, though – at least Sherlock had been able to mess around a kitchen other than their own ...

Seeing that the atmosphere had turned distinctly lighter, John was unsure as to whether or not he should pursue Sherlock's investigation into Harry's situation. Sherlock himself started to draw some papers out of his overcoat, when they all heard the street door opening downstairs.

Sherlock cocked his head, listening, then snorted. Harry looked anxiously at John, who smiled reassuringly at him.

There was a brief knock at the door, and a man walked in without waiting for a reply.

"Sherlock, I have some files here if you could look over them, we're in a bit of a ... spot ..." John looked at Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade as he trailed off, looking at the child sitting in Sherlock Holmes' living room in utter amazement. Sherlock smiled that creepy, tight smile once more.

"Lestrade!" he boomed, and the DI flinched, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes. "You haven't met Harry yet, have you? Harry, this man is Detective Inspector Lestrade." Lestrade was gaping, looking from Sherlock to Harry to John then back again. Sherlock continued, looking only at Harry now. "Lestrade, this young man is Harry Potter," there was a pause, and John saw Sherlock building up the tension _just because he bloody felt like it_. He waited for Sherlock to say it. "He is our new ward."

As one, John and Lestrade took a deep breath, and performed an action that they would later deny was a face-palm.

00000ooooo0000oooo

Gregory Lestrade had come to accept a lot of things about Sherlock Holmes. He had known him for around five years (God, had it only been that long?) and he thought he had seen everything. He put up with the complaints of his team (most notably Sally and Anderson), he dealt with all the paperwork that was involved by 'letting' a civilian in on his crime scenes. He suffered through blistering remonstrations, petty insults, and awkward moments of social ignorance simply because the man was brilliant. He was amazing at what he did, and even though Sgt. Donovan may call him a 'Freak', Sherlock had always come through for Lestrade, and he never asked for anything. He didn't ask for money, or recognition, he just expected to be consulted when it came to 'interesting' cases.

Some people might accuse Greg of using Sherlock to further his own career, but as far as he could tell, theirs was a twisted symbiotic relationship. Sherlock benefited in the area of having dead bodies to look at and 'idiots' to ridicule (Greg supposed that, to Sherlock, it was a benefit) and Greg's team was able to clear up cases that would have baffled the other Inspectors at New Scotland Yard. Greg didn't lie to himself – there was absolutely no way that anyone but Sherlock (or perhaps his extremely frightening older brother) could solve some of the cases Greg had been landed with. If Greg's team had had to deal with them alone, the cases would have eventually gone cold, and would have been sent to join the depressing number of cold cases that New Scotland Yard had stockpiled. Greg often toyed with giving Sherlock a massive pile of them for Christmas or something, but he wasn't sure if his security clearance would cover that.

It was almost aggravating how easily Sherlock was able to pick out the details that his highly-trained and experienced team had missed. And he was never apologetic, or understanding with how they hadn't seen that because the lady's coat collar was wet, she was _obviously_ on a trip from Cardiff, and had been carrying out multiple affairs, pink luggage in tow. Honestly. He just got all condescending and in-your-face about it all.

Since John had come along, he was slightly better, though. John was able to remind him of certain social norms that Sherlock apparently thought of as ridiculous, and he had managed to get some weight on the skinny detective somehow. Greg suspected that it was a tag-team effort made by Mrs. Hudson and John. Greg was also no longer worried whenever Sherlock went haring off after a lead in the middle of an investigation. Sherlock wasn't a trained combatant, but John was ex-military, and he stuck to Sherlock like glue. It was really a relief, because he had figured it would only be a matter of time before Sherlock ended up dead or seriously injured, and then the full, cold _displeasure_ of Mycroft Holmes would fall directly upon Detective Inspector Lestrade.

It would ruin him.

So it was that he was sure that Sherlock would never be in a situation where it could cause surprise. Raised eyebrows, sure. Disgust and horror, definitely. But this...?

Who in their right mind would place a child with Sherlock Holmes?

When he had walked in the door, he had barely glanced around the now-familiar flat. He had had a terrible time of it – New Scotland Yard was all over the Black Escape, as they were calling it, but there were absolutely no leads. This was mainly because there just wasn't _any_ information on the guy. There were no personal records, no trial transcripts, no listed family – nothing! His team wasn't even in this department, but so many teams had tried, and failed to figure out where the man was that they had dragged in Greg's team into the mix. In desperation, Greg had decided to take the files to Sherlock. Maybe he could see something where there was nothing. God knew that he had done it enough times before.

However, seeing the young boy firmly ensconced on a couch in Baker Street had almost driven the Black Escape from his mind. The boy was obviously comfortable, and John seemed to be aware of him, so he didn't _think_ Sherlock was doing some sort of experiment. John wouldn't allow that. Was it a case? The kid, on closer inspection, was actually pretty roughed up, but he seemed to feel secure in Sherlock and John's presence. If anything, the kid looked nervous because _Greg_ was there. Thinking about it, it smarted of some sort of child-related crime. He glanced desperately at Sherlock, John, and the kid, trying to pull a Sherlock and figure out _what the bloody hell was going on_. And why was there a fecking _dog_ in the flat? Did Mrs. Hudson know? And was that an _owl_?

When Sherlock, far too smugly, the bastard, finally got around to introducing the kid, Lestrade could only drop his face into his hand in despair. A _ward_. Sherlock was responsible for a child. The world would end tomorrow, he just knew it. Oh, sure, John was there – but giving a man like Sherlock access to the mind of a kid was almost inhumane. To be clear, Greg didn't think that Sherlock would _ever_ deliberately harm a child. He might claim the status of sociopath, but really, he was a stand-up bloke. In his own way. But he could be totally, obliviously cruel at times, and Greg didn't think that it would help a child with issues as large as this one must have.

He decided to put it on the back burner for now. He knew what Sherlock wanted – he wanted a confrontation about the guardianship, a chance to verbally spar with Greg. Greg would inevitably lose, and the kid would probably be traumatized. No, Greg decided, he'd ask John about it later. Right now he had to focus on the Black Escape, and try to solve it before an actual murder happened and his team was _really_ needed.

He sat down wearily, and dropped the file onto the coffee table.

"Sherlock," he said, "I can't deal with this right now. We've got a murderer on the loose, and all of us have been pulled off our regular jobs to find him. There's nothing though. Look over these files, _please_, I don't care if you think they're boring. This needs to be solved, soon, alright?"

He glanced between Sherlock and John, and was relieved when he saw the spark of interest in his eyes. The thought that the case would be dismissed as 'boring' had driven him mad on the way here. He sat back, content to watch as Sherlock reached for the file. He glanced briefly at Harry, before shaking his head. Not now. Later, once this mess is sorted, he promised himself.

00000ooooo000000

Sirius was uneasy. Something about that file had his hackles rising, but he tried to suppress it so as not to alarm Harry.

Sherlock opened the file, glanced over it briefly, then caught eyes with Harry, then John. Slowly, he said,

"This is the file for Sirius Black, the escaped ... convict." It was all Sirius could do not to whimper in horror. He thought that they had forgotten about him after Mycroft Holmes left, and now this stupid muggle was bringing him up again!

Lestrade nodded tiredly.

"We've got nothing on him," he said. "There's no records, no family, no motive. I can't even pin down the exact crime he committed, but it was a murder of almost a dozen people. It's all very hush-hush, and there's nothing to go on," the man explained in exasperation.

"No, I don't suppose there would be," Sherlock mused. The tone of his voice seemed to irritate Lestrade, who stood up abruptly.

"Well, if it's going to be like that, just look over it and text me if you find anything. I haven't got time for you to sit around and be insulting. John, good seeing you, we'll catch up once this mess is sorted, yeah?" With a final nod, and a handshake with John, Lestrade left, sparing a contemplative glance at Harry.

Once the door shut, Sherlock started feverishly flipping through the file, muttering to himself. Sirius waited with dread growing in his heart. Sherlock, the bastard, would have more of a chance at figuring out the deception than most wizards he knew. He only hoped that he could somehow discover Sirius' innocence – otherwise things would get very ugly in 221 B. Alternately, Sherlock could reach no conclusion – like Lestrade said, there wasn't much muggle information on Sirius Black. As a pureblood wizard, he had no papers in the muggle world.

Suddenly, Sherlock sprang up, and started collecting things from around the flat. Mostly Harry's things, Sirius noted, but he didn't do anything, for Harry was just watching the man with wide, enthralled eyes.

Finally, the hurricane that was Sherlock stopped, and sat before the accumulated 'data'. He pressed his hands together, almost as though he were praying, and drew a deep breath.

"Britain has been informed of a dangerous serial killer breaking out of a top secret penitentiary," he began, voice even as he explained. Sirius thought that John looked slightly shocked, but then he saw that Sherlock was watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. Ah. He wanted Harry to follow along. Well, that would make it easier for Sirius and John.

"It was claimed that he murdered twelve people, but there are no records of such a murder done by said man. There are no documents, no records of a trial. The whole thing screams of cover-up, and the police know it, but nobody is saying anything. The man is reported to be mad, armed, and very dangerous, and it is advised that no one approach him. There is a special mention in the file that New Scotland Yard is not to engage him in any way. His goals are unclear, as are his motivations. So far, mundane," Sherlock said, nodding at the file Lestrade had given him.

"Moving on," he continued, "we address the magical. Mycroft informed us that Harry Potter's legal guardian was unable to care for him due to his twelve year incarceration. He has recently broken out of a confidential penitentiary that not even Mycroft has the access to. Mycroft also informed us of a possible goal – the eradication of the Potter line. We may infer from this that the murderer, Sirius Black, and Harry's errant guardian, are one and the same," the consulting detective said with a smirk.

Sirius was frozen. He was really doing it. The bastard was doing it. He glanced up at Harry, and saw shock on his features, and an odd, despairing expression. Sirius looked away. The damn man was still talking – couldn't he just be _done_?

"Looking at his mugshot," Sherlock went on, "he does look rather insane," here Sirius bristled imperceptibly, "but it is hardly the classical mugshot that Britain has standardized. It has been edited in some way." Sherlock waved the still photograph of Sirius vaguely, and Sirius could see that it was a doctored magical photograph. Sherlock whipped out a small lens, and looked closely at the photograph.

"The photograph itself is most singular," he declared, "or, it would have been before we met Harry." Harry and John looked up, puzzled. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The pixellation of police photographs is very different from this one. It is almost impossible to get a totally defined photograph. However, the pixellation of this man is incredibly life-like – something that I have only encountered when viewing the magical photographs that Harry possesses."

Sirius was stunned. He would never have thought that wizards could be found out from their bloody _pictures_. Well, frozen ones. The ones that moved, _obviously_, that's how Harry was 'outed'. Whatever. This was sickeningly fascinating. And the man was still going!

"In fact, on closer inspection of Harry's photographs," here Sherlock started delicately flipping through the album, which caused Harry to shift slightly. Sirius thought he knew where he was going with this, he was going to...

"We find that, in the image of Mr and Mrs. Potter's wedding, a man looking remarkably similar to the escaped 'convict' is standing in the place of the Best Man," Sherlock declared, his eyes gleaming.

Yes, Sirius thought, he went there. Harry was looking horrified. 'Best Man' he mouthed silently, green eyes wide and full of betrayal. Sherlock didn't seem to see this, as he was going full steam ahead with his deductions.

"It is therefor obvious," Sherlock said, "that Sirius Black is a wizarding criminal that has been deemed a danger to mundane citizens as well. This is most-likely due to the twelve people he allegedly murdered, that no one can find records of. There is not even a date as to when his crime was committed. How then, can we deduce what the crime was?" The question was obviously rhetorical, as he just kept talking, pulling out a piece of parchment from the pile on the little table.

"I have here a letter addressed to one Petunia Dursley, dated 1st November, the day after Harry was orphaned." Sirius saw John wince at Sherlock's blunt statement of Harry's parents' deaths, and he felt highly indignant over how insensitive the berk was being. Sherlock didn't notice anything, though. Typical.

"In this letter, it explains that Harry must reside with his mother's sister, as his legal guardian, his Godfather, will be incarcerated for his crimes, which were left undescribed. It also illustrates that another close family friend is not an option, as has been classified as a dangerous creature. My, my, Harry, the company you should keep!" Sherlock said with a wry grin, before looking up and seeing John's glare. He paused.

"Not good?" he asked, eyeing Harry's pale face.

"Very not good!" John spat, getting up to sit beside Harry, pulling the teen to his side. Sherlock nodded in apology, then went on, tapping away now on his phone.

"From this time reference, we can search for any deaths, explained or unexplained, that occurred after October 31st of that year. And here we are," he exclaimed with far too much glee considering he had found out about twelve dead people, "twelve dead in gas explosion. Damage sustained to sewer system, written off as an accident. No other mass deaths around that time, though there are singular incidents of unexplained murders in the months leading up to it. Interesting that the letter is dated before the explosion occured..." He seemed to pause, thinking over what he had said, and Sirius took the opportunity to think back on those last few months of the war.

There was the fear, the loss of trust, the desperation. The utter terror that they all felt, the dread of not seeing your loved ones the next day. Then, for him, there was the soul-crushing realization that his best friend was dead, and so was Voldemort, and he couldn't even be happy about it because _James and Lily were dead_. And he hadn't been happy at any point after than, for he had gone off after Peter, and been framed, then tossed into Azkaban. No, Sirius hadn't been happy in a very long time.

Sherlock began speaking again.

"It can be said that the magical government credited the deaths to Sirius Black, and incarcerated him. There are no records of a trial, so we cannot say whether he was truly found guilty. We have no knowledge on how the magical legal system works." This Sherlock said with a frown – he seemed rather annoyed that he didn't have access to all the pertinent data, as he said.

"The man has now broken out, but why now? Why not at some point over the last twelve years? Simple. There was a trigger. There was newfound purpose. What was it? Wanting to get rid of the Potter family? That would allude to hate, so, no. Hate is a paralytic. Love is a far more powerful motivator, so it was most likely love, or some protective instinct that drove the man to escape where before he was content to rot in a gaol. Which begs the question, what does he love? There are no records of family, so we may not rule them out, but the one connection we do have is his Godson. Where does that leave us?" Here he looked at Harry and John, who stared blankly back at him. Sherlock sighed.

"It leaves us with a desperate wizard, alone and presumably weak from his stint in magical prison. The only known link we have is his Godson, our ward, Harry. How to find a wizard that does not want to be found? Look for what others may miss. Through good fortune, I believe I have sufficient data to make a deduction," Sherlock said with certainty.

Oh, Merlin, no, Sirius thought. Please, he just wanted to stay with Harry. He needed to be with the boy, especially now. Could Sherlock figure out his last defence, his great deception? Most likely. If he ran now, it would be suspect. He waited in resignation, curled into Harry's lap like an oversized cat.

John was looking at Sherlock in exasperation, clearly impatient to get to the bottom of this. Harry was just wide eyed and frazzled from the information overload, but he seemed to be keeping up.

Sherlock reached forward and plucked up the last item on the table. A transfiguration text. Damn, he's done it, thought Sirius.

"In this text," Sherlock said slowly, "it does not go into detail on the technique, but there is a reference to wizards who may change their shape into that of an animal. They are called animagi," Sherlock informed them, looking at Harry. The boy blinked, and then said slowly,

"My transfiguration Professor turns into a cat." Sherlock nodded pensively.

"Sirius Black," he said in a drawl, tasting the name as he spoke it. "John, are you familiar with the constellation Canis Major?" he inquired idly.

Bugger, Sirius thought.

John looked at Sherlock incredulously. "Sherlock," he said, "until a few months ago you weren't aware that the earth went around the sun. What's with the astrology trivia?"

Sherlock huffed a bit. "It's _Astronomy_, John, and it's in Harry's textbooks, so I have not deleted the information, trivial as it may be."

John scoffed. "Trivial? Tell that to the restored painting," he muttered. Sirius felt that there was a story there, but he was far too anxious to be curious. Sherlock sighed with impatience.

"The point is, John, that in the constellation Canis Major, there is the star Alpha Canis Majoris, the brightest star in the sky. More commonly named Sirius, the Dog Star," Sherlock informed the inhabitants of the room. A dawning comprehension was growing in both Harry and John's eyes, and Sirius hated seeing it.

Sherlock wasn't done yet, though.

"There is also the name Black, to consider," he said. "Now, what is familiar about a black dog?" he asked in an almost innocent voice.

There was a silence in the room. It was heavy, and uncomfortable, and no one wanted to deal with it. Sherlock, of course ignored it, and asked, as if inquiring after the weather,

"So, Mr. Black, please do tell if I am in error." The blue eyes weren't looking at him, but Sirius could feel the weight of the question. What could he do? He could remain silent, and possibly be turned over for verification. He could make a break for it, and never see Harry again. He could... but no, that would be insane. Would Sherlock and John listen to him, hear him out? Perhaps. They didn't seem to jump to conclusions like wizards were wont to do.

Sirius had never been accused of being sane.

Shifting suddenly into his human form, he sat beside Harry on the couch. John let out a startled yell, and his hand made an abortive motion towards his hip. Harry was staring at Sirius in horror and awe – even Hedwig was bristling her feathers for a fight. Sherlock was wearing a triumphant smirk, gazing at Sirius smugly.

Sirius licked his dry lips, and tried to find his voice.

"Actually," he said hoarsely, his voice rough from not being used in so many months – years? "The form is determined more by our personalities," he explained, looking at Sherlock with as steady a gaze as he could manage.

Sherlock's icy blue eyes flickered over Sirius's haggard state, taking everything in.

"Always something," he murmured with an annoyed sigh.

* * *

><p>AN: So! Reviews? Please tell me what you think! I loved all the feedback from your last reviews, and they do inspire me for some of the filler writing. I've had Sherlock deducing Sirius planned out for a while, he just needed a few more pieces. I know that there are some gaping holes, but please, can we just accept that I'm combining the genius of Sherlock with the awesomeness of magic, and some sense is going to slip through the cracks? Enjoy it for what it's worth - I'm not being paid to make this airtight :D I'm actually not being paid. But I still like doing this!<p>

I know I didn't go very far into how Harry was really treated, but I've decided that the guys are going to be delicate about it. It's been dealt with (handed to Mycroft) so they can work through the truth when Harry is ready to. Sorry for the lack of Harry POV - I'll get around to it, but the guys are a bit more easy to write from. John and Sirius are great mediums for the story, so I may use them more than Harry or Sherlock. It was fun writing Lestrade, though. I got a bit rambly with him, but don't judge. He's been dragged away from his normal job to look for someone with no information. He's running on very little sleep, gallons of bad office coffee, and he's had his nicotine patch on for too long. And then he went to talk to Sherlock. Cut the guy some slack!

I'll try to get another chapter out, but it's going to be tough writing a Sirius/Sherlock/John confrontation (get your mind out of the gutter, whoever saw that format and thought threesome! Romance is a long way off!). Please try to be as patient and wonderful as you have been.

I'm also trying to get new chapters out for my other fics - I actually planned on writing for my Avengers crossover, but Sherlock suddenly called to me, and I just had to answer.

Life is hectic. Teaching a lot of classes, writing a lot of curriculum, taking Thai classes, doing Impossible Thai Yoga... So bear with me. If I've been too subtle, reviews make my life! They brighten my sunny Thai days, so throw a review junkie a bone, if you have time. I love you all, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


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